Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Drowning.

Such an odd and foreign thing, to him. To have water fill your lungs; choke out the air. To breathe a gasp and watch the bubbles float leisurely up to the surface.

To sink.

How much of a difference does change make?

Here’s a hypothetical. There’s a trolley going down on a track, and on that track-

Kidding. That one’s boring. Here’s a different hypothetical.

You’re driving a vehicle down a path. You’re staying on the path. Something — or rather, someone — steps into the path. Maybe they were pushed; maybe they didn’t see it; maybe they saw but wouldn’t, or couldn’t, stop walking. That part doesn’t matter, in the long run.

You have a minute to swerve, and save their life. In doing so, you will most likely crash.

This is not where the hypothetical starts; this is, still, only the setting of a stage. You do not get a choice.

You will run them over. They will die. 

Now, in the aftermath of your decision, you feel regret. Guilt. ‘I shouldn’t have run them over,’ you think, worrying the bottom of your lip between your teeth. ‘I should’ve swerved.’

It’s too late for that, now. They’re already dead. And you’re still driving.

Now, here’s the hypothetical. If another person starts crossing the road, do you swerve? You’ve already run one person down, what’s another?

Or another, or another, or another?

Or do you stop driving entirely? End it all and start walking? Walk and walk and when you come across a road-

…It’s silly, really. Just a silly hypothetical.

But in the way that hypotheticals are, they nag; snag claws like stubborn burrs, thorns digging through your clothes and pricking your skin — a reminder, constantly, with every little motion. Think of me, think of me, think of nothing else.

Derra Finnale is…just a guy. Perfectly and utterly ordinary. You wouldn’t look twice if you walked by him, and if he were a character in a storybook you’d turn your nose up at him entirely.

All the better, honestly. Call him crazy, but Derra would be perfectly content living his life the way it is, for forever. It is, after all, so very intentional; every aspect designed and every detail accounted for. He built this life; it’s his.

And he’s…happy. He really, truly is.

Maybe it was selfish of him, to be. There were people who’d never be happy again after what he’d done; those corpses he’d run over.

They’d never be happy, they’d never be sad — they wouldn’t be anything at all, in the way that corpses, dead people, often are.

The stars twinkle down at him, like eyes smiling kindly, unobstructed and unbothered by any moonlight or cloud. The street he’s walking down is brightly lit; the buildings that line it glow with the light from their windows, awake still, despite the hour. Just around the corner, there’s a muffled tune of music. 

He can’t even remember what for — if there was a festival, or a birthday party he had somehow missed in such a sleepy little town. Maybe there wasn’t any reason for it. It was there, simply for the sake of being there.

How wonderful.

The holoprojector in his pocket buzzes. With a little yelp, Derra stumbles to a stop — fishes it out, and turns it on.

Soft blue light flickers. Derra’s heart soars.

“Papa!” His little starlight had pushed her face too close to the holoprojector, and Derra could only catch the slight curve of her eyebrow. There’s a voice, coming from her end; soft and warm, words inaudible but tone caught clearly in the thrums of affection. 

“Syla,” Derra chuckles. “I can’t see you. You’re too close.”

But Syla was already moving back, and the smile she beams then rivals that of a thousand suns. “Sor-ee, Papa," she says. Then, without missing a beat, "When are you coming home?”

Never one for pleasantries, is she? “ I am on my way back, right now.” As if to prove it, Derra slings his pack over his shoulder, from where he had been dragging it along — fuelled, suddenly and simply so, by the sight of his daughter. “Is your Father there with you?”

“Mhm! He said you left the station already, but I didn’t believe him.”

“Why not?” Derra continues on his path. "You know Father wouldn't lie to you."

That voice, again — with words still inaudible. Derra could guess it was probably an exasperated 'thank you!'

"I know that!" Syla shoots her father, hidden from Derra's view, with a glare — or at least, the best an eight-year-old could do. "I just wanted to check! You always say, is better to be safe than sorry!"

“Ah, well. It appears I’ve been positively wrecked by that argument.” Syla’s father, Derra’s husband, appears in the frame. Eyes wrinkling into well-worn smile lines at the edges, and with a voice that flits easily between tones warm and comfortable. 

“It’s true,” Derra snickers. “You did say that.”

“See!” Triumphant at winning the argument, Syla passes smug grins between her two fathers. She then turns her attention back over to Derra; a quiet, subtle, but no less present furrow between her eyebrows, then. “So you’re really heading back now?”

“Yes, Starlight.” Derra turns the corner. The music fades away — it’s quieter, here. More dark windows and slumbering houses. “I’ll be there- Oh, give me ten minutes?”

“Ten.” Syla wrinkles her nose. “Five?”

“Seven.”

“Deal!” That furrow is gone, and Syla beams a little gap-toothed smile. “Seven, Papa! Don’t be late! One, two, three-”

Smoothly and evidently well-practised, Syla’s father scoops the holoprojector out of her hands — holds it up to be level with him, instead. Derra imagines dark eyebrows furrowing cheekily, instead of the grainy flickering blue. 

“Seven minutes? And you’re on…is that Gyner Street?” The scepticism is practically dripping off his voice, but it melts smoothly into amused fondness. “Looks like you better start sprinting.”

“Looks like it,” Derra returns, cheerfully. His steps pick up speed. “Is she actually counting?”

“Yep. She’s got you by the second.”

“Seven minutes,” Derra promises. He stakes his life on it, practically. Gods, he’d hate for his little Starlight to get upset with him. “Count on it. Count on me.”

“You know I always do,” comes the reply — the truth, spoken as easily as the sun will rise and the rain will fall and the stars will burn. Blue, holographic eyes burn with that same intensity, and Derra is nearly bowled over by the want that seizes him, then. “You know I always will.”

“–twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty! Thirty-one–”

“I’ll be there,” Derra breathes. Then, he turns the projector off. 

Without stopping, without missing a beat, he shifts his pack to the front and shoves the projector inside — vaguely, he hears it clatter and clang with the rest of his possessions. Swinging it back over his shoulder kicks a grunt and a huff out of his lungs, but Derra pushes it all to the side as he turns the corner and-

“Cute kid.”

He freezes.

“...what?” Slowly, he turns around. His eyebrows furrow at the sight of the deserted street all around him. It’s well-lit, but there are still shadows and, now, they seem impossibly so darker. The dark windows from the buildings surrounding him are as empty eye sockets.

“Your kid. They sound fun. Young,” that voice continues. There’s a particularly metallic tinge to it, as if spoken through a voice-altering program, or a vocoder. Derra still can’t find the source. “What was their name, again?”

Derra spins around, a couple of times. His grip on his pack tightens. “I don’t-”

“Was it Syla?”

The voice sounds clearer; closer. Derra whirls around one final time, and-

There, standing right smack in the middle of his path, is a Mandalorian — Derra was sure they weren’t standing there just a second ago. Their armour is unmistakable; legends turned reality, living stories of sharp and swift and silver.

Derra has seen Mandalorians only from a distance. This one, he notes, is rather…small.

The Mandalorian tilts their head to the side, slowly. They have their hands neatly folded behind their back. Their visor is heavily tinted; there’s not a hint of the face underneath it. It may as well be that there wasn’t any, and it’s just dark and shadows — an apparition in indestructible armour. 

“ It was Syla, wasn’t it?”

Derra struggles to breathe against the spasming of his chest — a mix of panic and protective anger. They know Syla's name, they know her name, they know her name — that's his baby.

He speaks, then, through curled lips and gritted teeth, in a huff and a growl. “Have you been- Have you been following me?”

“Yes,” The Mandalorian answers, easily and shamelessly. It’s salt in the wound, especially when they jerk their head to the side and goes, “Since you left the station. You walk slow. You were never going to make it in seven minutes.”

Derra resists the childish urge to go ‘yes, I would’ve’. There are other, much more pressing matters at hand. The fact that they’re following him, the fact that they’ve overheard his conversation with his family, the fact that they know that Syla exists-

The fact that, if they hadn’t revealed themselves then, they would’ve followed him to his house.

“You- you’re a bounty hunter, aren’t you?” He scolds himself for the brief stutter — refuses to let himself be cowed. He lifts his chin up, staring them down as best he can. “We don’t get many of those around here.”

It’s the truth. It’s that exact reason why Derra chose to settle down here, of all places — here, where he met his life, his love, his home. 

This was his home. And Derra isn’t running. Not anymore.

“No.” The Mandalorian doesn’t move, and Derra deflates slightly. Suppose shame on him for thinking he could intimidate one of them so easily. “It’s a nice place. Peaceful. Good.”

He thinks he burns underneath their gaze — burns underneath the look of eyes that aren’t even visible. Or perhaps he’s being scorched from the way they go on to say, “Shame someone like you had to bring someone like me into town.”

Derra’s fingers, on the hand not clutching onto his pack like it was a lifeline, curls into a fist. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Liar.” The Mandalorian leans forward, slightly. He thinks, if they were closer, he could see his own face in their visor — he thanks the stars for the distance. “'M not fond of liars. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You were Empire.”

Derra thinks he can’t breathe. He thinks he’s stopped entirely. He thinks he might as well be dead. “The Empire is dead.”

“You wish," The Mandalorian scoffs; a startling amount of emotion from an otherwise unmoving demeanour. Derra figures that, if anything were to break that mask, mentions of the Empire would do it. "Do you know what the Empire did to my f- My people?”

He is intimately aware of what the Empire did to the Mandalorians. Through gritted teeth, he says, again, “The Empire. Is. Dead.”

The Mandalorian regards him silently for while. Then, almost innocently, they ask, “Does your family think that as well?”

They might have well just shot him. 

Derra growls — anger fueled by panic, and both of those things tend to make you stupid. Stupid enough for him to take a step forward, closer towards them. “Leave them out of it! They don't deserve you. They don't even know anything, and they're never going to! They’re innocent in all of this. They're good people.” 

His voice echoes back to him, in the silence. It's deafening. The silence, then, is long and thin.

“...But you’re not,” the Mandalorian says, finally. It’s softly spoken.

It’s not a question.

And they were not fond of liars, so Derra didn’t bother answering.

“I’m looking for someone.” The Mandalorian straightens — it’s a barely perceptible motion. Like a predator waggling haunches, flexing claws before the pounce. “I was told you could tell me where he is.”

Derra feels his eyes slide shut; his face scrunch up. He thinks about shouting, about screaming for help, of running and running and running until his lungs burn. Begging for someone, anyone, to find them. 

He thinks about risking the life of someone who didn’t deserve it.

The Mandalorian, if nothing else, was right about one thing.

This is a good place. Full of good people; kind people. Those few that still exist in the galaxy — those few who mean everything, what keeps them hanging on, what keeps them going on. And, regardless of their goodness, most importantly, they are innocent.

And Derra has been so, so selfish before — he cannot do it again.

“I can’t help you,” he says, tiredly. Derra opens his eyes. “I deflected from the Empire a long, long time ago. I didn’t touch the First Order. I can’t help you.”

The Mandalorian doesn't seem fazed, or even that disappointed. “I didn’t even tell you who I’m looking for," they say, with a tone that sounds almost as if they're scolding him.

“I could guess.” Derra opens his mouth, a name on the tip of his tongue, but that’s as far as it gets. It feels like inviting the devil into your home, speaking that name. 

Assume he knows everything, after all.

Instead, Derra sighs, and shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I am. But I can’t help you.”

The Mandalorian stares at him, for a long long while. It’s almost as if they’ve turned to stone. It’s almost as if they were frozen in shock. It’s almost as if they aren’t even listening to him.

"Let me ask," they say, and if Derra didn't know any better, he'd almost say it was pleading. But it's less a question than it is a statement; it is less a request than it is a declaration. "Let me ask. Where...where can I find Moff Gideon?"

Derra keeps himself from cringing away from the name. He's not superstitious, but he is cautious, and Moff Gideon is someone nobody — least of all him — wants on their doorstep.

"I don't know," he says, honestly. "I don't know. I'm sorry."

Derra doesn’t see them move — motion too quick for his eyes to catch. But, all of the sudden, they’ve got a tight grip on something in their right hand, and-

It clicks.

Their spear seems to grow into existence. As if it were another limb — a part of them. The tip of it taps against the sidewalk with a quiet, warning clang.

“Let me ask you again,” they say — their voice, now, barely more than a growl. It sends shivers crawling done Derra's spine. “Where...can I find...Moff Gideon?”

Derra’s breath chokes him, dragging claws and filling his lungs with blood — it's racing through his veins; heart hammering like a trapped bird in his ribcage; a cold shiver running down his spine. His legs feel weak as he takes a step back; his tongue feels heavy, like lead, when he says;

“I don’t know.”

The Mandalorian shifts. 

And Derra whispers an apology to the stars. I'm sorry, Syla, my heart.

"Wrong answer," they snarl. Then, they lunge.

The ground underneath his feet seems to shake, rumbling and growling. There is the roaring of a ship's engine, and the ground roars in tune, trembling.

One Migs Mayfeld is well aware of this particular feeling.

“Oh, karking hell-” With a hiss and a groan, he pulls the rifle away from his shoulder and sets it down. He turns his back on the hole-ridden target on the other end of the field, and looks up.

A ship flies overhead, the roar of the engine reaching its peak — the force of it sends branches and grass swaying away. Biting his tongue, Migs watches it soar past; getting lower and lower as it does, before it eventually vanishes behind the trees.

In the deafening silence that comes after, he counts the seconds.

“Boss!” Bins bursts through the undergrowth. Their eyes are wide, and they’re panting lightly. “He’s here!”

Migs gives them a look. 

Bins ducks their head. “Ah, yeah-" they say, almost sheepishly rubbing at the back of their neck. "You…probably saw that.”

Migs breathes out a sigh. He bends down to pick his rifle back up, resting it against his shoulder. “Asshole’s back already? What, didn’t he leave two days ago? These Mandos, man…”

Bins only shrugs, waiting for him by the undergrowth. They begin picking their way back to the main camp. “They’re legends for a reason, eh?”

Migs grumbles something inaudible and incomprehensible. Then, he huffs, “Legends are supposed to be staying far karkin’ away though. This one keeps coming back. Like a lost damn massif pup.”

“You did tell him he could.” Bins is eyeing him, through the corners of their eyes. “'N you’ve never sent him away, either.”

Migs shoots them with a glare, realising too late that he might’ve just proved their point. Kark it all.

“Yeah, you try sending a Mandalorian packing,” he challenges, instead. He hikes his rifle further up his shoulder, from where his grip had been slipping. “Ain’t as easy as it looks.”

“As what looks? You didn’t even try-”

“Yeah, keep talking and I’ll let him have his way with you.”

“You wouldn’t.” Bins puts a hand to their chest, eyes widening in faux-offence. They gasp. “But I’m your favourite!”

“Okay, well, A; Vhel’s my favourite. Obviously.” Migs elbows them with enough force that the much larger figure actually stumbles, tripping over roots. There’s a damn bird singing somewhere. “And B; you’ve been spending waaaaay too much time with Dran. You’re starting to sound like the asshole.”

“That’s not a bad thing!”

“That’s the worst thing you could ever be. I need to gag the bastard.” Migs puts a hand to his forehead. Just thinking about it stresses him out an unreasonable amount, which is a bad thing to be when you’re walking to talk to a Mandalorian, who may just as well be an unreasonably amount stressed out himself. 

“You first,” Bins shoots back — never one to let insult to Dran lay still. It used to be really funny, then really endearing, at first. Now it’s just annoying. Kiss already, you bastards. “Even the Mando would agree with me on that.”

“Oh!" This time, it's Migs who gasps."Traitor!”

“It’s the truth.” Bins has got a smug look on their face. Migs elbows them again, then quickly dodges their attempt at retaliating. He’d rather his ribcage intact, thanks.

They finally push through into a clearing. There’s a bunch of personal tents scattered about, surrounding the bigger and more open main one in the middle. Migs strides towards it, putting his rifle on the biggest table in the middle — amidst a whole mess of various maps and other bitbobs.

The ship — the Crest II — is in the same clearing, further to the edges, almost pushing back against the forest. As if they were all rabid and rancid, and the Mando wants to keep his distance for as long and as much as he could.

Good karking luck with that. Migs moves, facing the ship directly but leaning against the table. He crosses his arms and waits.

Bins is moving in the corner of his eyes; shifting around. They sigh aloud. “Wish Dran and Vhel got back already. This sucks without them.”

“You mean without Dran?” Migs shoots them a teasing look with raised, waggling eyebrows — barking out a laugh at their grumbling scowl. “Hey, don’t get all snippy on me, alright? You were the one with the extensive shopping list.”

“Yeah, and I was thinking I’d be able to go.” Bins mirrors him by crossing their arms over their chest. “Instead I’m stuck here, while Vhel gets to go. S’ rubbish.”

“Suck it up. I need you here.” Migs draws his eyes away — he doesn’t need to see the way Bins is sobering up at the sudden tenseness of his tone, the flatness of his words. “It’d be nice to have all of them here, but between you n’ me, we could probably take down a Mando.”

Silence, for a while. They’re both watching the ship. Its engines have powered off, and the clearing is quiet.

“Fat chance of that ever happening,” Bins mutters. Migs can’t help but bark out a bitter laugh.

Soon enough, he spies the ramp of the ship lowering.

Out, then, strides the Mando.

The kid’s walking a hell of a lot steadier than the first time he came knocking. Migs recalls frantic shouts, confused and still-sleepy mutters, the roaring of an engine. He remembers, jaw agape, watching the ship land like a ghost from his past come practically crashing down. 

He’d held his rifle out, pointing across that dark clearing, finger steady on the trigger and a holler on his tongue-

Words that die, withered and rotten, when the kid stumbles out, practically tripping on his feet. Cradling his arm to his chest as if it hurt to move; visor moving to each of them, one by one, as if they were the ghosts and he was the only thing clinging to life.

Migs thinks the Mando had passed out, at some point. When they were in the base, and Mando was probably high off his shit with the amount of bacta and painkillers they’d shot into him. A moment where he was just a bit too still, a bit too quiet — ragged breaths a bit smoother.

It didn’t last long. Kid’s got nightmares, apparently.

‘What happened to you?’ Migs had marvelled, then, in a quiet sort of horror, in the quiet of such a horrifying night.

‘What had to be done,’ Mando had only replied, the hoarseness of his voice evident even through the vocoder. Then, ‘Help me.’

He’s gone soft, Migs thinks, now, when he’s watching the Mando storm across the clearing like a soldier off to war. Bins was right. He’s gone completely and utterly soft.

“Mando,” Migs greets to an unsurprising stony silence. “You’re home early.”

Mando jolts horribly at the word ‘home’, and looks like he’s trying to cover the motion up by crossing his arms. He doesn't return the greeting, rude little shit, and instead stops a couple steps away to say, “Your intel was bad."

Gods. If Migs didn’t pity the kid, he’d be down to punch that beskar helmet with enough force to have it ringing in his ears for weeks. 

“Really?” Migs makes himself say, instead. He hears the way his own voice becomes thin. “Did you ask this time?”

“Of course I asked,” Mando snaps. He’s been very irritable, lately. It makes Migs uneasy. “There was nothing I could pry out because they didn’t have anything in the first place. It was a stupid waste of time.”

Migs bites back on the intense urge to sneer. He’s not built to be the calm one, the one who deescalates situations before they could turn into fights, but he’s been finding himself shoved into the role more often than nought these days.

It’s not like Mando was the one going to act as mediator.

“It’s not a waste of time,” Migs grits out, struggling to keep his own hackles lying. “We crossed another one off the list. It’s progress.”

Mando scoffs, visor angling away — staring at the ground. He mutters something lowly underneath his breath.

Impatient, now, Migs snaps, “What was that?”

“‘We’,” Mando echoes, like a bitter snarl. “That’s what you said?”

“Yeah, and?” Migs pricks up an eyebrow; challenging. One of the last things you’d want to be with a Mandalorian, but he knows this one — knows that, underneath all those sharp edges and cold metal is just a stupid kid. 

It's the truth — as much as it’s true that Migs has gone soft, and that he does pity this sad and ungrateful sack of shit. This dumb, stupid kid who either can’t or won’t go trotting back to his people, and spends most nights holed up in that ship of his, alone. 

Just a dumb, stupid kid so obviously carrying a lot more baggage than just the weight of that armour.

Don’t ask questions, was a policy of Ran’s. Migs isn’t fond of the old bastard, but can’t deny he had something going, then. Don’t ask questions; don’t spook them off.

The galaxy is a big space. Most of that space is empty. 

And Mando is…pretty small.

“If you want to go hunting down your target without my help,” Migs lifts his hands up, as if in surrender, “then be my guest. I ain’t stopping you.”

Mando goes still, then. Some part of Migs feels vaguely guilty over the not-quite threat — but, hey, it wouldn’t kill the kid to learn to say thank you. Be good for him to, even. It’s called tough love.

Tough love works, because eventually the Mando ducks his head. He mutters something too quiet to be comprehensible for the vocoder, but Migs is willing to cut him some slack and pretend he said ‘sorry’. If only for his own sanity.

He turns around and catches a glimpse of Bins staring at him, with wide eyes. That’s going to be an issue for later.

“Finnale really had nothing for you?” He asks the maps, and his rifle. Behind him, he can hear the chinking of armour as Mando moves.

“Nothing.” Mando steps up to the table, by his side. The surface is about his eye level; kid probably can’t actually see anything on it. He acts like he can, though, so Migs doesn’t bring it up. “They weren’t lying about it. It’s been too long since they were involved.”

Migs grunts. “Didn’t feel like that long ago.”

“It was long ‘nough.” Mando reaches up to the table, grasping around for something. “Who’s next on the list?”

His fingers brush against the datapad, but Migs snatches it before he could grab hold. “Woah, there, hang on a second,” he says, taking a step back.

Mando sharply turns towards him, fingers curling into fists. Migs only holds the datapad closer to his chest — he lifts up a finger.

“Ah, ah, ah- I said wait.” Hurriedly, while Migs still has the kid’s attention and not yet his fury, he says, “You just got back. Take a day off or somethin’.”

Mando’s shoulders tense. “I don’t have time for a day off-”

“Well I’m not askin’.” Migs crosses his arms. He tries his best to look stern. “Don’t be stupid, Mando. You head out there, with your head not screwed on tight enough, and you’re signing your own death sentence.”

“Then fine! I don’t care!” Mando steps forward. He makes grabbing notions for the datapad, then actually tries to grab it by jumping up. Migs stifles a yelp as he holds it out of the kid’s reach. “M- Haar’chak, Caine! Just give me the godsdamned list!”

“It’s just one day! Go out to town or whatever. Get a drink.” Migs blinks. “I mean, like, water, or something. Are you old enough to drink alcohol?”

Mando stomps harshly onto his foot. Migs yelps and hops back, cursing under his breath. “Oh, kark- Seriously?”

“You’re being stupid.”

“You’re being stubborn.”

“I’ve got a job to do, Caine!”

“Well it’s not going anywhere!”

“It literally is! That’s what bounty hunting is!”

“Well I don’t give a shit, then!” Migs straightens up, wincing at his poor sore toes. He lifts the datapad high into the air — Mando’s visor follows it, like it’s the most important thing in the galaxy. It probably is, for him, right now. 

“One day,” Migs repeats, again. His grip on the datapad tightens. Then, before he could overthink it, he goes, “Or I delete the list.”

Mando goes still, again — a kind of quiet, deathly, dangerous stillness. Where the last one had been like a kid freezing with a hand down a cookie jar, this is like a predator spotting prey.

“Don’t you dare,” Mando growls; low and gravelly.

“Try me.” Migs lifts his chin up, refusing to back down. Tough love, don’t fail him now. “And you can’t kill me either, 'cause everything on this list came from my head. Yeah, that’s right. Checkmate, Mando.”

Maybe he shouldn't have sounded so smug. Actually, you know what, scratch that — do you know the amount of shit he has to put up with from the kid? He'll live.

That growl of his turns into a snarl; wordless and vicious. But, when Mando moves, it’s not to storm across the distance — instead, the kid half-turns around and paces, like a caged animal. Frustration practically rolls off of him in waves.

Migs watches him, slowly bringing the datapad back down to his chest. “First light tomorrow,” he continues — Mando’s head jerks violently, but he knows the kid’s listening. “I give you the next name. Then you can go back to your rust-bucket ship. Whatever. Deal?”

“This is stupid.”

“Do we have a deal?”

“I hate you,” Mando hisses. “I loathe you. You suck. I hope you rot.”

Migs holds out a hand. “Shake on it, kiddo.”

Mando stops pacing — visor angling itself in a way that makes Migs thinks he’s glaring down at the outstretched hand. His fingers are curling and uncurling into fists, as if the kid’s physically holding himself back from throwing a blow.

There’s a violent huff of static through the vocoder, then Mando’s whirling around on his heels and storming back across the clearing. He shouts, over his shoulder and without looking back, “You better give me that name, Caine!”

“Love you too!” Migs only calls back, a shit-eating grin on his face — a grin that only grows at the Mando’s muffled scream in response. Chuckling, he turns back towards the table and puts the datapad down.

He remembers Bins, suddenly. Migs glances up, meeting their wide-eyed look with the jaw slightly agape. A stupid dramatic reaction, really, ‘cause it’s not like this was the first time any of that happened.

“What?” Migs shrugs. “Teenagers, amirite?”

One of these days, Grogu was going to murder Migs Mayfeld. And he’s going to do it slow.

“Stupid list,” he’s muttering to himself, picking through the woods and heading in the direction of town. The trees listen faithfully. “Stupid mercenary.”

Grogu steps over a tree root, then kicks a rock. It tumbles through the fallen leaves, thunks against the foliage, and then settles in the mulch. Dumb, stupid rock. It’s ugly and boring. A solid 1/10, as far as rocks go. Do better.

“Stupid forest,” he seethes, pushing through the undergrowth. Branches glance against his armour, screeching softly and shrilly. He grimaces. “Stupid planet. Oh, haar’chak! (Damn it!) ”

A day off. A day off?! As if these past few months, Grogu had been going to a 9-5 office job and getting a paycheck and stressing over normal people work stuff. As if he’s not a hunter, as if he’s stupid enough to overwork himself, as if he needs a day off-

He reaches out to the side as he walks, snagging hold of the branches of a bush and yanking at them — just to relieve some frustration. It barely makes a dent.  

Grogu doesn’t need a day off! He doesn’t need to rest, he doesn’t need to stop, and he doesn’t need to go into dumb stupid town, where the people will stare at him and his armour and the fact that he’s alone.

What he needs is to find Moff Gideon. What he needs is to kill Moff Gideon.

He needs that demagolka's head mounted up on a wall. He needs to get the next name, to find the next target, and to find out where Moff Gideon is. It's been months — target after target after damn target, and that monster is still out there. It's infuriating. It's so frustrating!

Grogu kicks at another rock. This one tumbles further away, jostling the bush it rolls into. From it, something too quick for Grogu to catch darts out and vanishes into the camouflage. 

Stupid animal. Stupid bush. Stupid rock.

Stupid Migs Mayfeld.

Grogu storms through the woods. He is the tempest; rage of unpleasant weather — he is the wind, shrill and frigid and cold as he shoves through the growth — he is the thunder, rumbling and growling and snarling, lungs heaving — he is the rain, relentless.

Eventually, his thunderstorm of a march reaches the closest town to Mayfeld’s base. He’s been here before, but Grogu cannot help but pause when he reaches the break in the trees — to stare into the cluster of buildings, the open streets, the people milling and wandering about.

It seems to glow underneath the light of the late morning sun; the shine of it like a halo, as if this place were divine. Or, at the very least, sacred — or, at the very least, important, if only to the people who lived in it.

It is home.

Just not one for him. 

Grogu doesn’t get one of those; he’s not built for it. It’s obvious, when he gave it thought. He doesn’t belong anywhere. He doesn’t belong, at all. 

It’s the truth. Nothing else to it.

He huffs a harsh sigh. Then, another, slower one — intentionally dragging it out, intentionally expelling at least some of his irritation. 

Well, he was here. Might as well make use of his time.

He moves out of the trees and into town. His march, now, is less violent and destructive — alternatively, it is steadier and more resolute. Firm and stubborn; he makes through the streets, through the crowd, as if he were walking against the tide of a river.

He does not turn to look at the stares he can feel burning into his back. He does not turn to look at the barely audible whispers he can hear, underneath all the other chatter. He does not turn to, nor away from, the Songs when they stutter and stumble.

Grogu Djarin keeps walking. He does not stop. He does not turn back.

Eventually, he gets to the markets. His steps slow, quiet hesitation as he considers what he needs to get and where he needs to go. 

He spies a stall full of the planet’s native fruit. His feet are moving towards it before he can even think.

“Good afternoon, how may I- Oh.” The human-appearing fruit vendor visibly stiffens, at the sight of him. “He-hello, there.”

Grogu stops a few feet away from the stall; just enough so that the angle actually lets him see the things on it. Usually, he’d just jump up on the tables themselves and point out what he wants — he hasn’t done that in a while. He’s not sure how the people here would take to it; it’s not like he’s on Tatooine, after all.

…ah, damn you, Djarin. Shut up. Don’t think about Tatooine. You can’t spiral here, of all places.

“Give me something that can last for a standard week, at least.” He lifts his hand up to gesture, vaguely, at the array of produce; his hand brushes over his heart and for a moment, Grogu pushes down against it. “Preferably longer.”

The vendor presses their lips tightly together into a thin line, but thankfully doesn’t say much of anything else. He knows their curiosity burns; he’s had to deflect a couple questions thrown at him, the first few times. Eventually, they learned to keep their mouths shut.

Good. Grogu’s not in the mood to answer their questions. Grogu’s not in the mood to do anything at all, really. 

They give him his fruit and he gives them their credits, stepping up to the stall and slapping the amount on the surface. He leaves before they could count it — it could be too much, it could be too little. Regardless, they don’t call out for him when he leaves.

That’s the fruit done. Now Mayfeld won’t nag his godsdamned ears off for his apparently ‘bad diet’. Like he can say anything about it. Hypocrite.

...Grogu is at his fifth stall when he realises that someone’s been following him. 

He can hear his own melody begin to pick up; tunes and rhythms stringing together into one of high-tensions and curling lips. He makes himself stand still; to accept the medical supplies — he goes through them a lot — and to trade them a couple credits, moving away as naturally as he can. 

He does not turn around. He wants to. He doesn’t. He’s not that much of a fool.

There could be a number of reasons why he has a tail. Maybe some kids got curious, hearing word of a wandering Mandalorian. Maybe some adults got curious, and they’re disguising that curiosity as caution; tailing him to make sure he doesn't go rogue or something.

Or, maybe, he's being hunted.

It comes with the package of being what he is. When one chooses to walk the way of Mandalore, they are both hunter and prey.

Grogu slows down, acting as if he’s peering into the stalls. His tail slows down as he does; he spies, through the corners of his eyes, two moving figures, both trying their best to appear inconspicuous.

Di'kutla shabuire (stupid jerks). He bets they couldn’t be more obvious if they tried.

As he slowly picks his way through the crowd, heading out of the markets, Grogu takes them in. Both of them are humanoid — one of them easily passing as a human, whilst the other has their features obscured underneath a mask and a wide-brim hat. As they move, he spies the curious gazes coming from the locals.

Too large to be children. Too foreign to be good-samaritan parents. That leaves only one last thing on his list 

Cursing too softly for the vocoder of his helmet, Grogu subtly begins picking up speed. He weaves between the legs of the crowds with practised agility: mindful, however, not to stray too far.

There's a building, at the far edge of town — built for storage. Too small to be called a warehouse, but big enough that most main businesses store their stock there. Grogu knows — he broke in out of curiosity, early on.

He heads for that building now. At this time of day, it should be empty. The people here are good — he doesn’t want to put them in the crossfire.

He puts on a burst of speed at the last stretch, slipping into an alleyway next to the building. Grogu moves quick, leaping up and grabbing onto a relatively high windowsill — he can hear the hunters cursing; can hear their footsteps quickening.

He opens the window and drops inside.

The store room is dark; shelves like labyrinth walls, full of boxes and crates and jars. Grogu hadn’t the chance to properly peer at them, when he first broke in — he didn’t really care for the contents. He doesn’t pay much attention to them now either.

Grogu puts his stuff behind a crate on the ground. Then, he steps up to the nearest shelf, and climbs.

The hunters have apparently forgone stealth entirely; they stand on the other side of the window, arguing in loud and harsh whispers. There’s a heavy thump, as if one of them had been shoved against the wall — silence stretches soon after.

Grogu watches, and he waits. They’ll either climb in through the window as well or give up; regardless, up on the shelves, he has an advantage. Now, all there is left to do is-

The front door creaks open. 

Well, damn. He didn’t consider the fact that they could just open the door. That’s on him.

"Mando…" One of them calls in a saccharinely sweet, sing-song voice. "Come out buddy! We just wanna chat with you, have a lil' conversation."

Their partner grumbles something that Grogu doesn’t catch. It makes the other hiss, softly in response.

They begin moving, splitting up and making their way between the shelves. Grogu keeps still, watching them from above; his eyes narrowing.

“We’d rather not hurt you,” says the one with the hat and the mask; the one who had spoken up earlier.  They step up to a crate and opens it, peering inside. “You know, it’s not every day that an employer had such strict instructions to use non-lethal force.”

They slam the lid of the crate closed. “The Daimyo must be really fond of you.”

Grogu barely stifles a growl. He shifts, on the topmost level of a shelf; tucked in the shadow of two crates. 

The human passing one wanders beneath him, white-knuckled grip on their rifle. Grogu tilts his head; for a moment, thinking.

He drops down. They don’t get the chance to scream.

“You know, I got the feeling,” the other hunter continues. It’s good that they’re fond of their own voice; it helps, alongside the Songs, and lets him know where they are, while he works on dragging the other’s body out of plain sight.

Jeez, humans can be so heavy.

“Bounties are usually scrappy folks. I thought you screwed the Daimyo over for a few bucks, or something. But the way he talks about you? ” The bounty hunter opens a cabinet; the sound of its doors slamming shut again nearly makes Grogu jump.

"Why, he practically threatened to kill us if we’d hurt you. You’re not just a normal bounty.” Through the gaps of the stock, Grogu can see the way they stand up their tiptoes, peering higher up the shelves. Huh, this one's smarter. That’s new. 

There’s a quiet creaking sound.

“What’re you? Some sort of,” the bounty hunter harrumphs a dry chuckle, “prodigal son? What, is this an act of rebellion? I get you to Tatooine in chains, and all the Daimyo’s gonna do is ground you?”

Grogu’s eyes narrow, lip curling. They say that as if that’s not a bad thing — Daimyo’s ‘groundings’ aren’t the most pleasant ones. 

The bounty hunter has gone quiet. Grogu doesn’t dare move, lest it draws their attention. Staying on the ground in such a tight space makes him uneasy — claustrophobic. He needs to get out. He needs to be out.

“What the- Hey! You’re-”

Their voice abruptly cuts off into a muffled scream. There’s that telltale thud of a body dropping to the floor; a clattering, then, in that way a blaster would do if it fell to the ground. 

A cold, cold chill settles on his shoulders; seeping, into the bones of his spine. Grogu is holding his breath, first; realising it, second.

There’s someone else here. 

The silence yawning after is vast and oppressive.

“...Su cuy’gar, vod. Won’t you come out?”

Fierfek!

Grogu winces, biting harshly on his tongue. His next exhale is shaky. Shit. Shit. 

What had started off as a somewhat fun way to mess around with a couple di’kutla bounty hunters might just be what kills him. Oh, shit. How long have they been here? How long have they been following him?

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Come on, Djarin. You need to be better than this.

He can hear the chinking of their armour, now that he’s paying enough damn attention to listen; their steady Song rumbling, mildly muted — it would've been quieter, if they'd been wearing true beskar, so that's at least something. The sound of their motions are quiet and subtle; not like that back at the palace, where they had no reason to sneak around.

A Mandalorian knows how to move quietly, when the situation demands it.

Shit. 

He makes himself gulp in a long, deep breath; makes the panic in his veins simmer down to a low thrum. He spies motion, to his right; Grogu moves to the left.

“I need your help, vod,” says the Mando’ad. They pass the spot where he’d been hiding, just a second ago. “I’ve heard rumours of a sanctuary, on Tatooine. I need to get to it.”

Grogu huffs a quiet pant. Before he can think of it, he goes, “You don’t need me for that. ‘S a big palace. You won’t miss it. Haat (Truth — honest). ”

The Mando’ad stops moving. There’s silence, for a moment — as if they’re actually thinking about it.

“...not to find it,” they say. “I know where it is.”

Grogu swallows. “Then-”

“I need confirmation.” They’re moving again. Grogu quickly darts away, catching glimpses of them in between the shelves. “That it’s true. That it’s not a trap. That a true Mandalorian sits on the throne, and not an aruetyc aruetii (traitorous outsider).”

“The Daimyo is a Mandalorian,” Grogu spits out of sheer habit. He quickly dials back the defensiveness in his tone. “He won’t hurt you.”

Another silence. Thoughtful in its nature. Grogu lets it stretch — if he can slip out of here, make out of town- The woods will buy him at least half a standard hour before they track him to Mayfeld’s base, but he can hop on his ship in less-

Hands clamp onto his shoulders, shoving him up against a shelf; jars clatter, and the whole thing sways. Grogu grunts, eyes blowing wide and his own hands clamping around their wrists.

A T-visor stares down at him. The style of the armour is so familiar; to see it on someone other than himself almost hurts.

“No,” they say, steadily. “He won’t. Not if he wants you back unharmed.”

“Don’t struggle,” they twist the wrist of the hand gripping his left shoulder, moving it instead to his arm, “if those bounty hunters were right, then perhaps it is in your best interest that you come with me anyway.”

Grogu’s gaze darts from his arm in their grasp, and their visor; then, to the shelf behind them.

He grimaces. “Right. Uh, before that- Can I say something?”

“...go on.”

“Sorry.”

He kicks against their chest; in the same action, activates his shield. They snap their hand back as the shield solidifies; Grogu drives it against their visor. They reel back-

Grogu slams himself against them, shield-first, and they stumble against the shelf. There’s a low growl he’s not sure the origins of, but the Mando’ad grabs onto him instead of pushing away. They pin him against their cuirass, like a particularly violent hug.

Hissing, he scrabbles to brace his legs against them. He reaches down and curls his fingers around the hilt of his knife.

“Agh-!” Their grip on him slackens; Grogu kicks away, breaking free to land on his feet and widen the distance. He brings his vibroblade with him; their blood drips onto the ground by his feet.

The Mando’ad hisses, softly. They press a hand against their leg, between the plates of armour. 

Grogu had been trained to know his own weaknesses; to be aware of them, at all times. When it comes to the beskar’gam, a weakness of his is a weakness of theirs.

The Mando’ad hisses, again — this time, from less pain and more annoyance. “I don’t see what makes the Daimyo so fond of you.”

“It’s my charming personality,” Grogu deadpans. “People can’t help but adore me. I’m adorable.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Well debate, then.” Grogu straightens. His fingers twitch — the Songs begin to murmur, louder; the Force pushing into his call. “Hey, can you do me a favour?”

“Ngh-” The Mando’ad huffs; it’s almost comical, how put-upon they seem. Less enraged and more just exasperated, for someone he’d just stabbed. “What?”

“When you see him, and he welcomes you,” Grogu lifts a hand up, palm facing them, “tell the Daimyo I said hi.”

The shelves rattle and sway violently. Glass shatters as jars began to fall. The Force warbles; it begins to wail. A cacophony of noise, like a warning growl, that lasts only for a second.

With a low grunt, the earth seems to shake, as he brings it all come crashing down. 

His last glimpse of the Mando’ad is of them lifting their arms over their head, ducking and hunkering down. Then, they’re buried underneath the shelves and the crates and whatever glass jars survived, and that’s that.

The silence after is impossibly loud. He can hear only the sound of his own breaths; only the melody of his own tune.

He doesn’t let himself think about it. If they had gotten him, caught him, brought him back to the palace — then all of this, all these months, would’ve been for nothing. He doesn’t let himself think about it.

He eliminates the danger. He looks out for himself. It’s what he’s trained to do. 

Grogu deactivates his shield. The window he had clambered in from isn’t too far — he picks his way towards it, grabbing onto the things he’d bought from their hiding spot.

He gives the mess he made one, last, final glance back.

Then, he’s climbing back out the window, and leaves.

“Back already? Jeez, kid, you- Woah.” Turning away from a crate of resources, Mayfeld blinks and physically reels back. His eyes are wide, and he doesn't hide the way he's taking Grogu in, from head to toe. “What happened to you?”

“A supply run,” Grogu bites out, and not much else. The hike back hadn't been pleasant. Mostly just because his thoughts wouldn't shut up. It's annoying.

He lifts up the various bags he’d lugged through the woods, as a gesture. He doesn’t stop moving; brushes by Mayfeld and calls, without looking back, “I’m on my ship if you need me.” 

Gods, Grogu would be willing to give everything so long as they wouldn't need him. He needs a nap. Preferably, forever.

“Ah- yeah.” Mayfeld chuckles; the nervousness in his tone, the notes of his Song, makes Grogu pause, and actually stop. “About that, actually…Ah-”

Slowly, Grogu turns around.

“...Did you touch my ship?”

Without even meaning to, his words come heaving underneath the weight of his rising anger. List or no list, names or no names, Grogu was going to slaughter the sharpshooter if he’d so much as-

“Easy, alright? No need for dramatics.” Mayfeld lifts his hands up; either a call for peace, or a cry of surrender, Grogu wasn’t sure yet. Suppose it depended on him. Regardless, the sharpshooter pulls a face, gesturing further into the base. “Vhel and Dran got back earlier. They got a couple parts off cheap. I asked Dran to take a look in your ship, see what he could fix. That’s it.”

Grogu's words quickly fly the coop, leaving him stranded. He struggles, for a moment.

Something like cold shame quickly replaces his anger.

“ You- You didn’t have to-”

“Yeah.” Mayfeld has the gall to look amused. “I didn’t.”

Grogu huffs out a breath. He tries for annoyance, clings onto that instead of the tiny worms of guilt, “There’s nothing on there that needs to be fixed. It works fine.”

“Mando.” For a moment, the sharpshooter closes his eyes and actually looks tired. Huh. Grogu can have that effect on people. “You’re a godsdamned bounty hunter. Don’t be stupid.”

“You’re stupid,” Grogu retaliates, stupidly.

“Great. Now I’m going to go and actually have an intelligent conversation. Good day.”

“Good luck finding a conversation you don’t have to talk in.”

“I said good karking day!” Mayfeld throws his arms up into the air, exasperated, and turns around to walk away. The sharpshooter is grumbling underneath his breath; his Song singing out nothing close to the show on the outside.

Grogu watches Mayfeld’s back as he leaves. There’s a feeling, like a twisting, in his chest; an almost foul taste on his tongue. He swallows to try and wash it away. 

Then, he turns around and heads for his ship.

The Crest II. Over the months, he’s grown used to it — or, perhaps, it has grown used to him. Still haunted, still whispering with ghostly memories and ghoulish sensations, but they coexist.

They didn’t have the choice not to.

As Grogu approaches the lowered ramp, he spies motion in the depths. Just as he begins to step in, Dran is apparently stepping out.

“Mando,” he says, tipping his chin down. His voice is clipped and words short; Song singing in tunes of mild disdain. This is normal.

Grogu doesn’t return the greeting. This is also normal. “What did you do to my ship?”

Dran stops. He makes a little scoffing sound; something like a huff, and a sneer. “You know, if we did want to hurt you, we could’ve done that back when you dropped into our camp with a broken arm.”

Grogu tilts his head, ever so slightly. He bites on his tongue and keeps his silence; it’s usually the best way of going about this. Any other way usually ends up with one of them on the ground (spoiler; it's Dran) and Mayfeld's shouts ringing in their ears (spoiler; it's Grogu's).

True enough, after a while in silence, Dran looks away. He’s scoffing, again, but softer. “You’re lucky the boss likes you,” he mutters. Then, louder, “Just maintenance stuff. Tightening screws.”

“Also,” Dran somewhat turns to better face him, pointing his finger up, “you were missing the speaker for your comms, so I replaced it. You’ve got scratches on your console too. What, did something got in? What happened?”

“‘S not your business.” Grogu turns away. Fun thing about the buy'ce; it's not really one for peripheral vision, so all Grogu has to do is tilt his head a bit and then boom, he no longer has to see the way they're staring at him. It's great.

He makes to head in, but hesitates, for a moment — just long enough to go, quietly, “...thanks.”

Dran’s Song flits up in surprised tunes. “Sorry, what was that?” He knocks the palm of his hand against his ear; the motion a bit too exaggerated to be genuine. “I didn’t quite hear you. Say it again?”

“Get out of my ship.” Grogu keeps walking. Gods, he can’t stand these people.

“You’re welcome, by the way!” Dran calls, with a slightly scrunched-up expression. He’s slowly stepping back, boots coming onto grass. “It’s not like I had anything better to do than to fix your sorry excuse of a-”

Grogu slams his hand against the buttons, and the ramp closes with a hiss and a groan. After, is blissful silence.

That silence quickly becomes damning; wretched and cruel. Grogu breathes out a sharp exhale — he never gets used to the silence. He'll never let himself.

He drops all of his shopping in the kitchenette area for him to sort out later — or, more accurately, push to the side until he needs something. His much lighter credit pouch ends up on a crate he’d been using as a table, as does his blaster. That thing's always digging into his side.

Hmm, he might have to take up a couple of jobs soon. Such a shame that hunting down your father’s murderer doesn’t pay as well; neither does looting the dead or unconscious bodies of your bounty hunters. Galaxy’s greatest cruelty — capitalism.

With a huff, Grogu clambers up the ladder, and strides to the cockpit. 

The clearing out on the other side of the transparisteel windows is quiet, and calm. Grogu can see the way the wind blows through the grass. Further away, moving in and out of tents, are the figures of Mayfeld’s crew; their chatter too far away to be audible, but evident in the way they stand.

Grogu watches the scene for a while. 

They’re too far to see him. He knows, logically and rationally, that he could just take his helmet off. The bounty hunters from earlier are dead.

Here, in this ship, he is safe.

…but he doesn’t think he’s alone. And for as much as he keeps telling himself that he’s safe, Grogu doesn’t quite feel it. This haunted ship of his — they coexist.

They’re not friendly about it.

Besides, to take off his helmet would be to…stop. To rest. Grogu’s not tired, and he doesn’t need to rest. He needs to keep going. He needs to keep going. He needs to keep going.

Stopping now would be the death of him. And Grogu, despite it all, is still alive.

He’s inclined to keep it that way. At least for the time being. That's all this is, really — a need, a want, to survive; to keep going. Grogu doesn't mind if he loses himself in the process; for as long as Moff Gideon is still alive, so too will he have to persevere. He won't accept any alternatives.

It's just survival.

...and yet, he can't help but think about the Mando'ad from town.

Bounty hunters, in general, aren't...really a problem. Ver- The Daimyo, for all his wealth and power, is always intent on making sure they know not to hurt him, and is never fond of sending one of their own. It's a weakness. One that Grogu has made sure to exploit, every single time. It worked last time, it will work again.

Or, at least, up until the point where the Daimyo finally gets fed up with it. Then, he'll either call off the bounty hunters, or tell them to shoot to kill. Either way, Grogu suddenly just won't have to worry about it. Win-win. 

Yeah.

For a second, and only a second, he allows his thoughts to wander. For a second, and only a second, he allows himself to wonder.

And then that second is over, and Grogu is reigning in his own mind with a bit more cruelty than what was exactly necessary — scowling at himself, in the safety of his helmet.

It was just survival. They would've done the same thing. They were going to do the same thing.

Quietly, idly, Grogu's hand drifts to rub at his wrist; slipping under the fabric of the kute, and his glove. He can feel his own pulse. He can feel the scars from the cuffs. Grogu presses his finger against both of them, harshly, until there's a dull ache on his skin. 

His attention draws itself to the comms on his console. Dran had fitted in a new speaker, and it stands unblemished with the backdrop of scratches against it. Grogu reaches forward, fingers curling, slowly running his claws down those scratches. They’re a perfect fit.

Well, obviously. These claws were what dealt those scratches. It’d be like stepping into his own footprint.

Mayfeld had said they got the parts off cheap? Are speakers cheap? Or are they usually expensive? Admittedly, Grogu doesn’t quite know — he’s never had to buy one. Up until a few months ago, he hadn’t even been using this ship.

Hm. 

…a couple weeks ago, Grogu received a transmission. The comms of his ship did still work, after all — it was the speakers that were busted, so he hadn’t been able to hear it. He didn’t bother himself too much with it — anybody who had the comm code for his ship wasn’t anybody he wanted to talk to. People that he couldn’t afford to talk to.

And yet, despite himself, Grogu pulls up that transmission now. His fingers hesitate, for a second — this was a bad idea, this was a bad idea, this was a bad idea, echoing like a mantra in his head.

This is a bad idea, Grogu thinks.

He presses play. A hologram flickers on, alongside the crackling of the speakers, blue light flickering against the sunlight.

Grogu’s breath catches in his throat as a small, holographic version of his brother appears in his ship.

Vars looks exactly the same as how he remembers. 

Vars also looks…nervous, even with the helmet — wringing his hands and twisting his gloves. He glances around him once; peering around, almost as if he’s hiding. Then, he turns to face forward, and Grogu watches, not breathing, that familiar way he sets his shoulders back.

Gathering strength.

“Hey,” Vars says, barely more than a whisper. “Listen, I can’t explain it all right now- I’m not even supposed to be doing this, haar’chak, but-”

Vars cuts himself off, glancing at something behind him. He goes still, waiting for a few seconds, before slowly turning back.

“You need to come back. You gotta. Don’t stop the transmission. Listen.”

Grogu, with his fingers hovering over the stop button, perhaps should’ve pressed. But he finds himself caught off guard for only a second, and that’s all Vars had needed.

“We can meet somewhere else. I don’t care if you don’t come to the palace. I don’t- I don’t care if you never come back to the palace.” The quiet wobble in his voice says otherwise; Vars clears his throat, and it’s gone. “But we need to talk. I need to tell you something, in person. I need-”

Vars breathes in, quietly. It’s a motion that reminds Grogu to breathe in as well; he does, oxygen flooding into his neglected lungs.

“I need your help,” Vars says; softly, like a whisper. The audio crackles through the speakers, and Grogu wonders if the break in Vars’ voice was real. “Please.”

The transmission ends. The cockpit falls into silence. The hologram flickers off, and Vars is gone.

And Grogu is alone again.

Slowly, moving as though through a haze, he sits back, leaning against the pilot’s seat. 

That transmission is a few weeks old. Grogu wonders if Vars still wants to see him.

…he knows that doesn’t really matter. 

Grogu wants…to see him. He does. It’s damning, perhaps. It’s foolish. Weakness. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. He should just stay here, until daybreak, then get the next name and keep going. He should keep going. He should-

It’d be cruel, wouldn’t it? To Vars. Grogu was going to appear before him, like a desert mirage, and then leave. Or, worse, if Vars wouldn’t let him leave, then he was going to-

He shouldn't. He won't. He won't. It's been weeks. Vars probably already solved whatever it was anyway. He's smart. He doesn't need Grogu around. He doesn't need him. So Grogu's not going to go. He's not. He's not.

…But Grogu owes him. He still owes him, doesn't he? Yes, that’s right. He owes Vars a debt — back in the palace, when he’d been running, Vars had let him leave. It was a favour; it’s a debt. He can’t let a debt go unpaid; it’s dishonourable.

Yeah. Yeah. That’s just what this is. A debt to pay off; something to do — he'll just pop in, check in to see if Vars still needs his help, because it's the honourable thing to do. Then, when it's revealed that Vars had already fixed everything, Grogu will just go again. It’s an excuse to keep moving, while Mayfeld’s withholding the next name.

It’s convenient.

It’s fine.

It’s fine.

…Don’t think about it too much, Djarin.

Grogu straightens up. He doesn’t think about it, when he’s flicking switches and pulling levers and pressing buttons. He doesn’t think about it, when he’s reaching for the gear shift, curling his fingers around it. He doesn’t think about it. It’s just a debt. 

(And Vars is his brother.)

There’s no knob, at the top of the gear shift. He took it off when he was speeding through the silence of hyperspace, once. Right now, it’s probably drifting around in the vast expanse of space. 

It hurt too much to keep; that stupid ball at the top. A replica, a fake, just like everything else. It wasn't even necessary. 

This ship has enough ghosts, anyway.

Grogu’s grip around the gear shift tightens. Huffing a breath through that wretched squeezing in his lungs, he pushes it forward. 

Crest II’s engines roar to life.

Chapter Text

He had been five hours into hyperspace when he’d panicked.

“This is a horrible idea,” Grogu says, to himself, out loud. He’d been doing that just to fill in the silence; just to hear his own voice, something other than that damning silence. For some reason, saying it out loud works better to knock that thought into his head, and it rattles against painfully around in his skull.

He stands from the pilot’s seat; shaky, unsteady. “This is a horrible idea,” he says, again, as if he hadn’t heard himself the first time. “What am I doing? What. Am. I. Doing.”

What was he doing? Who’s to say this wasn’t a trap? That the Daimyo wasn’t waiting with the whole palace there for him?

Haar’chak (damn it), of course it’s a trap! He’s a fool! He’s an idiot!

Grogu quickly reaches out, curling his fingers around a lever — ready to pull it towards him and to force out of hyperspace as soon as the navi ensures he won’t end up in a planet. He starts to pull-

He stops.

For some unknown reason — unknown even to himself— Grogu stops.

Pull the lever, Djarin, he thinks — yells, practically, in his own thoughts. Pull the lever. Pull it now.

Pull it, Grogu thinks.

…but. 

But...what if…what if it wasn’t a trap? What if Vars really needed his help?

Then he can handle it on his own! Vars is capable! He’s a goran! He's an armourer!

But what if he can’t. What, was Grogu just going to leave him? To abandon him like that?!

You’ve practically done it already.

…and isn’t that the truth. He has, hasn’t he?

He’s gripping onto the lever so tightly, that it hurts. It digs into his palm with a dull sort of ache. Grogu makes his grip loosen, gradually; then, he lets go.

The stars of hyperspace streak by him. The light is reflected in his ship; sending the cockpit awash in soft hues of blue. He stares at them, practically willing for the glare to embed itself into his eyeballs, an ache that matches the ones his churning thoughts are giving him.

Because Grogu cannot go back to the palace. 

...He wants to.

Oh, how he wants to. But he can’t.

He’s forsaken his place there. In the same exact way he forsook the Jedi; the way he had forsook Master Skywalker, his teacher. He has much of a place with the Jedi as he does with the Mandalorians — which is to say, not at all.

The only place for him is here, in this ship. The only place for him is with those ghosts. And Grogu doesn’t deserve to have it any other way.

But Vars?

Vars doesn’t deserve that.

And Grogu still owes him. 

He sits back down, slowly. Grogu breathes out a shaky exhale; one that came forth from the deepest reaches of his lungs.

He needs to get out of this cockpit. He’s driving himself mad, just sitting here and looking at the lights — thinking and thinking and thinking. He needs to get out of the cockpit, out of this chair.

He needs to get out of this ship. He needs to throw himself into the cold and endless expanse of space.

…Baby steps, first. 

Grogu stands back up again. Every motion feels like something he’s forcing himself to do — proverbially shoving a blaster nozzle into his own back. He makes his way out of the cockpit, then down, down, down into the cargo hold.

It’s quiet. This is normal. It’s only him in here, after all; the only Song he hears is that of his own murmur, rumbling along with his thoughts. In return, the Force pushes up against him like an ocean's tide, and Grogu allows himself the comfort it is offering.

He belongs in this ship, Grogu thinks, with its ghosts and its memories. But he also belongs with the Force; with its songs and its melodies. Both ghost and melody are as intrinsic to him as his blood, his bones, his armour.

Curse anyone who’d dare take what he has left away from him.

...Besides, the ship isn’t truly silent. It’s not a dead rock floating around in space; it’s a machine, with parts and gears, steam and oil, engines rumbling and creaking. In a sense, it’s alive, too. Just like he is.

He wonders if that was meant to be comforting.

It wasn’t.

Grogu stands there, at the bottom of the ladder, for a moment; simply thinking. He does that an uncomfortable amount. The point of coming down here was to stop doing that. Overthinking is the mind-killer, or like, whatever.

Forcing a breath down his lungs, Grogu moves. He works on clearing out a space in the cargo hold, pushing crates to the side and kicking away things he probably should’ve picked up instead. Then, in the new empty space, he moves to stand at its very centre.

His spear clicks, as it snaps to its full length; a sound Grogu is intimately familiar with. The feel of it, its weight, is comforting; gives him strength and already soothes some of that raging anxiety.

The next exhale he breathes, then, is long and steady. Grogu slips down into a stance, bringing to the forefront of his memory, the more basic of patterns — not that it was particularly necessary when he's got them engraved into his muscle memory. He’d bring such shame to his armour, his training, and his helmet, if he had let himself forget.

He’d also, probably, just be dead.

Lucky that he hadn’t then.

He moves through the stances, the motions, the moves, limbs flowing easily into each position and it’s… good. It’s good. If he closes his eyes, he’s not even in the ship anymore, and the ghosts seem very, very far away.

It’s just him.

It’s just him.

Grogu twirls the spear, listening to the way it whistles in the air. He steps back, jabs the tip forward, then shoots himself across the distance. The footwork is like a dance he knows instinctually — his Song melts into a steady tune. 

It’s like a party, in a sense. His own little party. Though, he’s pretty sure they don’t usually involve so much dancing. Back at Tatooine-

Grogu stops. His steady breathing is replaced by shuddery ones; his melody picking into low, wailing tunes.

…Fierfek (fuck). 

And he’d been doing so good, too.

“Mm-” Grogu shakes his head, harshly. It’s fine. It’s fine, just push it to the side. You’re good at that stuff, aren't you, Djarin? Good at pushing it all to the side. Ignoring it. Not dealing with it.

Running. 

One of the few things that you’re good at, still. 

“Shut up,” he mutters, slipping back into the stance. His grip around the spear tightens. “Shut up.”

Here’s the kicker, he supposes; as he's stepping and leaping and jabbing at the air with a bit more force than necessary — the fact that this is his party, and he, its sole participant. The fact that it’s just him.

It’s just him.

But that doesn’t matter. Just like how it doesn’t matter how good someone was at running — they will never be able to get away from themselves. No matter what, no matter how it hurts, you’ll have to stick with yourself — no matter what, no matter how it hurts, you will never be able to run far enough.

But it’s fine. It’s whatever. He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine!

And he’s a dirty fucking liar!

...There’s a ringing that knocks him out of his own thoughts. It sounds like beskar.

Grogu blinks. He blinks again, and then a couple times more. His breaths are quiet, again; so, too, is his Song. Funny how he hadn’t even realised how loud it'd been, until the silence is beastly in the absence.

His spear is sticking out of the ground. Its tip is embedded rather deeply into the floor. Grogu’s even still holding on. 

He can feel the reverberations of the beskar; he listens to its ringing. He waits for both to fade away.

…Hm.

Grogu kneels down, next to the spear, tapping a claw along the edge of the indent on the floor. From here, he can see the way the lights of the ship reflect against the floor; highlighting many, many similar indents.

But, like, it’s not like he’s looking. That usually makes it worse. And Grogu is rather fond of making a bunch of things worse, but-

Not this time.

He might’ve sighed out loud, shoulders drooping as the tension leaves with his breath. Grogu leaves the spear as it is, sticking out — he leans against it. It’s nowhere near comfortable. He doesn’t care.

Vars had made him this spear.

A little…side-project, turned gift. It’s beskar-alloy, but that’s just so that Goran would’ve allowed it to even exist. She’s not fond of giving or making beskar weapons — worried about it turning against one of their own.

Guess she was right to be worried. She is often right. 

‘He would’ve been so proud of you.’

…Just not right about him.

Not that he can blame her. She’s not the only one.

Okay, well. Getting out of the cockpit did not help. He really wonders why he thought this time would be any different.

At least it’s over.

Yeah, he thinks, shifting to lie on his side, on the floor. Yeah, at least it’s over. Now his thoughts are quieter, and now he can breathe.

Although, beskar armour against a ship's metal floor isn’t exactly comfortable.

Whatever. Shouldn’t be long now.

Being in Tatooine's space makes him uneasy.

Which isn’t something he’d thought he’d ever be. Something he is not fond of being, either.

The planet doesn’t look like it changed much, from the expanse of space. That’s…probably a good thing. Grogu can’t imagine any good changes, if such a change was visible from outer space.

He stares at that planet for a while, leaning against the console in the cockpit, and propping his head up on his elbow. He takes in every detail it was willing to give him and even those that it was not, pushing through the ache in his chest, just to see.

…He should really just leave. It’s the smartest thing to do. Damn this — damn his attachment for getting him to this point, at all. Damn it for clouding his judgement; he should’ve been smarter. He should’ve, he should’ve, he should’ve-

He definitely should not have sent a message back. Because, now, that means that Vars is expecting him. 

And, granted, Grogu could still leave. Vars would be too busy to chase him down. From a practical, technical point of view, nothing’s really stopping him. 

So what if Vars is expecting him to come. So what if Vars was going to sneak out of the palace and head out to the middle of the Dunes in the dark. So what if Vars would stay there, until daybreak, if Grogu had taken that long — waiting, and waiting, and then waiting some more, still.

So what? Grogu doesn’t care.

…that’s a lie. Grogu shouldn’t care. He does anyway. Because he’s a damn fool and an idiot.

Okay.

Okay.

Enough of that, now. Think practical; there will be time to yell at himself later.

Let’s assume that it was a trap; that the Daimyo was going to be there. Grogu will need a plan. Ideally, of course, he’d be able to spot them from above and then leave without even landing — then he’ll never talk to any of them ever again, and that would be that.

But that’s not a plan. That’s a hope. Worst case scenario, Grogu lands. Worst case scenario, they trap him. Worst case scenario-

Worst case scenario, he fights. The only question is, then; how far is he willing to go?

…Here’s a confession. 

Here, right here, in the cockpit of his ship — a look-a-like of his father’s. Here, in the quiet of space. Here, alone, here’s a confession that he will make.

Just for you.

Back at the palace. Back in the Daimyo’s chambers. Back during their fight, he-

He would’ve killed him.

The Daimyo, that is. If it came to that, Grogu would’ve. He thinks he’d…feel bad, afterwards — maybe that was an understatement; just as well, maybe it wasn’t. But in the heat of the moment, of that moment-

Deny it all he wants. Deny it all he has been doing; cowering from the truth, from a certainty he knows in his bones. Denying it is all he can do. It’s still the truth.

So, there. That answers that question. How far is he willing to go? 

Far.

Grogu stares long and hard at that planet — Tatooine.

His home, once.

It was as undeserving of him as he was of it; it churned him up and spat him out, and Grogu scorns and curses at its surface, but it was home, once. Once. 

He’s gone too far to call it that, still. He’s made it this far.

Be such a shame to die now.

He taps at a button on his console, and a holographic model of Tatooine appears; flickering blue, a small look-a-like of the very real and very much larger planet just behind it. A red dot begins to flicker upon its surface, beeping gently.

Coordinates. 

These are the coordinates that Grogu had included, in his message back. It’s far enough from the palace to not be seen from it, but close enough for Vars to actually be able to get there. A compromise; a give and a take.

He taps at a few buttons some more. Another, red dot joins the first one. An unnecessary one, perhaps.

Grogu knows where the palace is.

Still.

...This part, at least, is something that he’s used to; something he’s had to get used to, as a hunter. 

The waiting.

He waits for night to fall. Or, rather, he waits until the planet’s surface, or at least the part that he needs, has tilted away from the light of the twin suns. He waits until the area marked by the coordinates are well enshrouded by shadow. He then waits a bit more.

If he wants to leave- 

If he wants to leave, it’ll be now.

Last chance, Djarin. Now or never.

Grogu breathes out a long, steady exhale. Then, he grabs onto the controls, and steers the ship towards Tatooine like a soldier off to war.

He stays away from settlements; from lights in the desert, from buildings, from life. If he could, he’d stay away from the animals scurrying in the sands as well; the banthas and the womprats and the krayts.

The whole planet is fiercely loyal to the Daimyo. He would know; he was part of that demographic, once. If only a single soul saw him now, he’s done.

The tenseness of it all is enough to make adrenaline course though his veins; heart beating wildly in his chest. It is lucky, then, that he is rather fond of adrenaline, and his hands manage to remain steady.

It would be so embarrassing if he crashed. Like, seriously? Just spare him the mortification and shoot him. He’d do it himself.

Soon enough, he gets to the place aligned with the coordinates. A place where the Dunes meet jagged, red rock; where a steep cliff wall drops down onto unforgiving sands. Other than burying themselves into the ground itself, Grogu can’t see any place where any Mando’ade (mandalorians) could be hiding.

And he doesn’t see. Any Mando’ade, that is. Not a single one. 

Not even Vars.

Is he…early? He actually thought he’d be late. Some part of him had been counting on it, too. 

Uneasiness settles onto his skin, like a blanket; rubbing uncomfortably and making hackles rise. Grogu lets the ship hover in the air for a moment, gnawing at his bottom lip — thinking and thinking and thinking and-

Slowly, he manoeuvres the ship onto the edge of the cliff. The rumble of the engines picks up cloud puffs of sand as he lands; the Crest II creaks and groans, before settling down with a small shiver.

Well. Guess all there’s left to do is wait some more.

After some hesitation, Grogu lets the engines rumble into silence. The power, though, he keeps on — he’s not that careless. Or that hopeful. Though those two are basically the same thing.

As much as he’d like to stay in the cockpit — where he’d easily be able to bring the ship into takeoff, should things go south — visual is limited. He doesn’t like the amount of blindspots he could possibly have. Better to at least take it outside.

Ugh. He should not have come here. It was a bad, horrible, awful idea. Great work, Djarin, you’ve done it again. 

Grogu makes his way out of the cockpit, and then down the ladder. He slips out of the ship, moving quietly, and is greeted by sand dunes that are just as, if not more, silent. He doesn’t think it breathes; he doesn’t think there’s anything alive out here.

Maybe he’s a fool.

Nah. He’s definitely a fool. He’s here, isn’t he?

After about a minute of standing by his ship, Grogu decides to clamber up its side and perch on the top. This way, at least, he has a high chance of seeing anybody coming up a lot faster; maybe even fast enough to get the ship back into the air before they even reach him.

Always go with the high ground, after all. Can’t ever go wrong with the high ground.

Tatooine is…quiet. It’s a quiet planet. This doesn’t surprise him, obviously; he’s familiar with it. He’s so familiar, it’s almost intimate — many a-sleepless night of his has been spent staring into that quiet, waiting for the suns to rise.

Suppose it’s not too different from what he’s doing right now.

…he won’t say he misses it. He won’t say he misses the planet. He won’t say he misses the Dunes, the suns, the people — Mos Espa, the palace, the-

He won’t say it.

He…can’t.

Not if he wants to keep going.

There’s a small roar of an engine. Grogu perks up, but just as well crouches down; pushes himself against the top of his ship. His hand drifts to his belt; fingers wrapping around his spear-

It’s a speeder. From here, Grogu can see that there’s only one person driving it.

The speeder has its lights turned off, so he tracks the moving shadow as it streaks across the Dunes. With difficulty, he forces his hand off of his spear; he forces himself to stand, tall, and ready.

As the speeder nears, honing onto him, Grogu reaches up to flick through the settings on his helmet; the desert goes brighter, the shadows softer, and Grogu can see-

Well. Good news and bad news.

Good news? It’s Vars!

Bad news? It’s Vars.

Vars brakes with enough force to send the speeder skidding, kicking up grains of sand. He’s swinging his leg off the speeder before its engines even settle, stumbling along to the rhythm of its quiet sputters.

He stops a few distances away from the ship. Grogu watches as his visor sweeps around near the ground a couple times, before slowly moving upwards.

At this distance, and with his beskar armour, Vars’ Song is too quiet to accurately hear. It could be soft tunes of relief, just as it could be disbelief — that rhythm that Grogu thinks is joy could just as easily be resignation.

But at this distance, Grogu can see the way Vars’ shoulders sag. And maybe that should say something; be something. Maybe it should be enough.

Grogu steps forward, closer to the edge. He drops off the roof of the Crest II, landing on his feet and bending his knees down as he does, to keep his joints from snapping.

Now, at this distance, with Vars only a few steps away from him, Grogu can hear his Song. And he has enough practice to be able to decipher through it; to know that it is relief, and it is just as much disbelief — that it is joy, just as much as it is resignation.

Funny, how all that works. Grogu would laugh.

“...hey,” he says, instead.

Vars breathes in a sharp inhale, judging by the sudden bout of static through his helmet’s vocoder. “Hey,” he says, in return.

There’s no speaker to blame for the break in his voice, this time. Grogu decides to blame it on the vocoder. It’s…simpler.

They stare at each other for a moment. The air is full of things unsaid, things said, things implied, and things they couldn’t begin to decipher on their own, much less say. It soon replaces all the oxygen in the air, and Grogu finds that he cannot breathe-

“I’ve…” Vars says, at last, and it works to only tighten that squeeze around his chest. “I’ve never seen your ship before.”

Huh? Of course he- 

Grogu frowns. “Yes you have.”

“Well, y’know. From the outside. Never the inside.” Keeping both his arms stuck to his sides, Vars fidgets with his fingers; curling and uncurling them into fists. It sounds like he’s sniffing, before clearing his throat. 

“Can I…” He begins, almost cautiously, “...see the inside?”

Grogu blinks.

They end up inside the ship.

Grogu stands with his arms crossed, at the end where the ramp would go down. Vars is on the opposite end, making his way idly around the cargo hold; peering inside crates and in his weapons cabinet and making soft tuts at his scattered and messy kitchenette area and-

“What are we doing?”

Vars glances back at him. He’s silent, for a moment. Then; “I’m checking out your ship. You never showed me around before you left.”

There’s a heavy potency on the word ‘left’. Grogu doesn’t want to talk about that. 

“I didn’t spend much time on it before I left,” he mutters. “You didn’t call me all the way back over here because of the ship, though.”

“Well what if I did?” Vars whirls back around to face him, finally sick of staring at his packet of rations. His voice is clipped; words short. “Huh? What if I thought that was the only thing that’d bring you back?”

Grogu reels, but just as quickly, he hisses, “Then you’d be an idiot, Vars. You’d be a damn fool.”

“And I don’t need to come back,” Grogu adds, bristling. “And I don’t want to. I didn’t.”

Vars’ Song is growling and snappy, and Grogu listens to the way his own Tune rises to meet that challenge. Their melodies are less melodies, and more cacophonies of warnings and of snarls; of teeth bared and jaws snapping.

“But here you are,” Vars says. If it were louder, it’d be bitter.

“Godsdamnit, Vars!” Grogu draws a snarl from his Song, into his own voice. He storms a couple steps across that impossible distance, fingers curled into fists. “I am here, now, because you asked me to come! Because you said you needed my help! Now was that just another lie, or are you actually in trouble?”

That gets Vars to shut up for a few moments, and Grogu gets to feel a sense of surprise at how relieved he is at that silence. That’s new — he didn’t use to like the quiet, when it came between them. Felt too wrong, when Vars would’ve filled in that silence with stories; too different.

Then again, they are different. Lots of things can change in a couple of months.

Grogu takes another step closer. "Vars," he says, through gritted teeth but with something so raw in his voice. "Are you in trouble?"

Vars isn’t like him. He can’t hear the Force — the Songs. Grogu wonders if that's a good thing; if it's better, that his brother cannot hear the way Grogu's melody sounds like a battle cry.

If it's better, if Vars doesn't know how much further Grogu is willing to go, for him.

Then again. Then again, maybe Vars knows anyway. Maybe he's always known, that unchanging truth.

At last, Vars says, quiet and barely audible, "The First Order."  

Grogu could barely hear him, and that was saying something when Grogu could usually hear most of everything. It’s almost as if Vars didn’t want him to hear — almost as if he’s worried about the implications of speaking the name too loudly. 

“They’re…” Vars seems to hesitate; seems to draw breath, draw strength, to himself, before he continues, “they're back.”

Sharply, Grogu breathes in, and that breath of air stabs at his lungs.

The First Order. 

A practically reskinned version of the Empire — such that even their moffs were recycled, much less their ideals.

“I thought they stopped.”

“‘S why I said they came ‘back’.” Vars sighs, shoulders drooping as the tension leaks out. “It’s gotten worse. They keep coming. They don’t stop.”

Grogu scoffs, softly. He leans back. “What, you’re telling me a whole palace of Mando’ade can’t chase off a couple aruetiise (outsiders)? What am I supposed to do about that?”

As soon as the words leave his tongue, a flood of guilt comes in; fouling his taste with something rotten, something bitter.

That was low. The only reason Tatooine ever became a target was because of him; because the Order was looking for him. He is the Asset, the target, the quarry, the hunted — he always has been.

Grogu winces, softly, and drops his arms to his side. His exhale gets caught in his lungs on the way out, and his voice is softer when he says, “I- That…came out wrong. That’s not what I meant.”

Vars subtly tilts his head to the side; his Song’s motif shifting. He’s regarding Grogu silently, for a while; an uncomfortable amount of calculating behind the gesture. It’s odd — too distant. Grogu’s not fond of it.

And then it all breaks, when Vars breathes, and there’s a hitch in his breath — like a choked-back sob.

“They got Plynne.”

Grogu thinks the world goes still.

“...what?”

“Plynne,” Vars chokes out. He curls into himself, arms wrapping around his own midsection. “The last- No, second to last, siege. They got in. They went for the Foundlings-”

Grogu takes a step back.

“-Plynne was there. They took her, Grogs. She was trying to protect them.”

“No,” Grogu feels himself say. His tongue seems to move of its own accord; words spilling out before he even thinks. “No. No.”

Vars doesn’t insist. He doesn’t have to. Grogu waits for him to go ‘Oh, just kidding, they’re fine, actually. I was joking’.

Very decidedly, Vars does not. And the fact stabs into him like a knife, and Grogu feels as if he bleeds.

They got Plynne. 

They got Plynne. 

Plynne, who'd always been the best of them all. Plynne, who always acted as if she were the oldest, or at least the wisest, and on most of those days, it was true. Plynne, who stopped their spars before they could become fights. Plynne, who had the sharpest teeth but the biggest heart and had used both indiscriminately.

Plynne, who, the last time Grogu had seen them, faced off against one of their own — all because Grogu had willed it to happen; had grabbed hold of their Song and forced it to sing the way he wanted it to. 

Plynne, who he'd forced to become a traitor, along with the others.

They got her, and she's gone.

No.

“When-” Grogu clears his throat. “When you say they took her-”

“Prisoner,” Vars finishes the sentence for him. “Ransom. Or just- I dunno, leverage? It’s been about a standard month.”

Grogu regrets not checking the transmission earlier. But, stubbornly and foolishly so, a small seed of hope sprouts in his chest.

“Prisoner,” Grogu echoes. He stumbles forward a step. “So they’re alive?”

Vars takes a minute to answer; his visor angling away, staring at the floor. This silence is less of calculations, and more of simple thinking — of Vars trying to get his thoughts in order, before they were allowed on his tongue.

Grogu…gets it. He knows, in the logical sense, that that’s good. 

Still, gods, he hates the waiting.

“I-” Vars breathes out, shakily. “About…two days? After that siege, they sent us a message. They told us to- to yield, or they’ll start hurting the prisoners. The Daimyo was just about to send out that rescue op before they attacked, again. ”

Vars reaches up, scratching at his shoulder; motions jittery and stressed. “They keep coming,” he says, barely more than a horrified whisper. As if he couldn’t believe it himself, despite probably having lived through it. “They keep coming, and coming, and coming. We barely have the time to breathe. I don’t remember the last time I slept right.”

Grogu takes another step forward. It’s wrong, seeing Vars like this. It’s wrong and it hurts.

The motion draws Vars’ attention back towards him.

“They’re still alive,” Grogu echoes. It’s a fact that he clings to, and needs Vars to do the same. “That’s why you called me, isn’t it? You want us to save them.”

It takes a few seconds into Vars’ silence, before Grogu’s own words settle into his head.

‘Us’

It had been so natural. He hadn’t even realised-

“Would you?” Vars asks, tentatively. He shifts, feet shuffling. “I know- You probably don’t have any…loyalty, to the rest of us, anymore. But I didn’t- I didn’t know what else to do, who else to call- Everyone else needed to be there, in the palace. You…weren’t.”

Grogu leans back, marginally. This time, it’s him who’s shifting through the thoughts in his head — picking and choosing his words, mapping out any possible reaction, anyway whatever he says could go wrong.

He wants to talk about loyalty. He wants to talk about how he never wanted to betray them. He wants to talk about how it had never been about them — that they were unfortunate collateral, and that oh how he misses-

“Yeah,” Grogu says, instead of all of those things, and instead of any of them. “I’ll do it.”

Then, before he could overthink it, before he could curse at himself for even considering, Grogu goes, “What…what about you? Do you need to go back to the palace? Or can you…”

Can you come with me?

Grogu holds his breath in the silence.

Oddly enough, Vars takes only a second to answer, as if it had lay readily on his tongue all this while;

“I’ll come.”

“A problem?”

“Are you asking,” Grogu goes through the motions and processes of starting up the Crest II’s engines, flicking levers and buttons, “or are you telling?”

“Bit of both.” Vars settles into one of the passenger seats. He’s staring out the window; or, at least, Grogu assumes so. He still hasn’t taken off his helmet. 

To be fair, neither had Grogu.

“We don’t know where they’re keeping the prisoners. We know it’s not on this planet, but,” Vars’ Song shifts into something vaguely bitter, and somewhat sheepish. “That doesn’t really narrow it down.”

Grogu frowns. He pushes the gear shift forward; the Crest II’s engines roar to life. “You said the Daimyo was going to send out a rescue op?”

“Full of the palace’s best hunters, yeah. They probably know where to find them.”

“But you didn’t ask.”

“Not really my place to. I’m not a hunter.”

“You’re a Mandalorian, Vars.” Grogu steers the ship out of Tatooine’s atmosphere. He doesn’t bring up how easily he breathes, after that. “We’re all hunters.”

“That’s a stereotype,” Vars mutters, and it’s almost a quip — it’s almost a joke, a tease. It’s almost familiar.

Grogu purses his lips tightly together, and fights back the urge to snap.

Great, yeah, no. He’d already been in the middle of one impossible hunt, grand to know that he’s about to get thrown into another one.

…actually.

“What are you doing?” Through the corner of his visor, Grogu can see the way Vars is straightening up. 

“Calling someone who could help us.” Grogu lets the comm ring for a moment, glancing between it and the expanse of space. He doesn’t add, the anxious thought gnawing at his brain stem — Let’s just hope he picks up.

A second passes. Then another. Then, two more, before-

“You better have a good karking explanation, Mando.”

“Caine,” Grogu grits out, eyes narrowing at the holographic depiction of the man that appears on his console. He resists the childish urge to swat at it, like a bug. “Explain what?”

“Oh, ‘explain what’, he says. Brilliant.” Mayfeld throws his hands up into the air, evidently frustrated. Grogu can hear Vars’ Song shift into something of curiosity. “Don’t play coy with me, mister. I told you to take a break.”

“And I told you I didn’t care about what you tell me to do. You’re not my-” Grogu stops himself. He sighs. “Look, I need your help.”

Mayfeld’s eyebrows raise. Grogu loathes the expression on his face.

“You need my help.”

Gods help him. “Yes.”

“Really.”

“Yes.”

“ Really .”

“Are you-!” Grogu bites on his own tongue. “Yes. Caine. I need your help.”

“Oh yeah?” Mayfeld crosses his arms. “And what’s in it for me?”

The question is so unexpected, so sudden, that Grogu actually flounders for words. He blinks. “What?”

“Exactly. I’ve been helping you all this time, and for what? You don’t even say thank you.” Someone on Mayfeld’s end is saying something; the sharpshoother shoots them a sharp look, before turning his attention back to Grogu. There’s a pointed look on his face. “You. Don’t. Even. Say. ‘Thank you’.”

Was Vars snickering? If Vars was snickering, Grogu was going to eject him from the ship.

Grogu’s grip on the control tightens; he can hear the creaking of his own gloves. 

“Caine,” Grogu grits out, feeling as though he was slowly and painfully carving out his own bones.

“Yes, Mando?”

Oh damn him. Stupid bastard. Karking idiot. Grogu was going to throttle him, and he wasn’t even going to be sorry. 

“Thank you. For helping me. Before,” he bites out, haltingly, through a tight jaw. Ugh. “Please, will you help me with this one other thing?”

Mayfeld’s expression smoothens into one of coy consideration. The shabuir (jerk) stretches the silence on for a few seconds. “Hmm. I’ll consider it.”

Grogu hisses, softly. “Bit pressed for time right now, Caine. Sorry to rush you.”

That coy consideration vanishes, like dew in the morning, when Mayfeld sobers up. Must’ve been something in his tone. 

“What is it?”

“You’re still keeping a watch on the Order’s activity, yeah?”

“Obviously.”

Grogu glances behind him. Vars takes it as the cue it was.

“Has there been any transport of prisoners?” Vars stands, stepping up to behind the pilot’s seat. He gestures vaguely in the air. “Anything from…a standard month ago?”

Mayfeld actually leans back, eyes wide. His mouth shifts to form a small ‘o’.

“Are you…?” Mayfeld points, straight at Vars. “Another Mando?”

Vars gives Grogu a sideways glance. Grogu shrugs.

“...yes?”

“Wow.” Mayfeld props his hands on his hips. Now, the sharpshooter is glancing between the two of them. “I didn’t know you had friends, kid.”

“Caine.” Oh, gods, just save him the mortification.

“Don’t get me wrong! I’m happy for you, really.” Mayfeld scratches at his chin, gesturing with his other hand. “Been a bit sad, just watching you mope around all lonely and-”

“Caine!”

“Alright, alright! Jeez.” Mayfeld lifts his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Give me like, five minutes. Order activity had been pretty low, save for this weird fixation on Tatoo- Ohh. Oh, jeez. That’s related, isn’t it?”

“Please hurry up.”

“Manners. That's new. Five minutes. Call you back.” Mayfeld hangs up, and the silence that fills the cockpit is massive and crowding.

Vars clears his throat. “So…”

Grogu forces a steady breath out of his lungs. “...So.”

“They said you’ve been lonely-”

“Let’s not talk about that right now.” Or ever. Preferably ever.

Vars grunts, moving back to his seat. Muttering lowly under his breath, he says, “We don’t talk about anything.”

Grogu frowns. That sentence is…rather unfairly loaded. The silence shifts; heavier, less kind, less friendly.

Say something, Djarin. 

Grogu takes in a breath, clearing his throat. He can hear a small note of attentiveness join in Vars’ Song.

Say something, Djarin.

The silence stretches. The words catch on Grogu’s teeth. Vars’ note of attentiveness fades away.

Damn it.

The next five minutes are quiet. Every so often, Vars is shifting, and the foreignness of another source of sound grates against Grogu for a second. 

He’d gotten used to the solitude. Only now, is he made aware of that fact.

Much too late, the comms of his console beeps. Grogu rather hastily picks up the call; he’d rather deal with Mayfeld’s wretched teasing than that silence.

“Anything?”

“A couple.” Mayfeld is looking down at a datapad — possibly, the same one that holds Grogu’s list. He yearns to be back on that track, for a second, before forcing his attention back to the present. “Take a look-see.”

There’s a map, that Mayfeld sends him then. Grogu pulls it up and allows a holographic projection of the entire known galaxy to project itself over his console.

Vars is standing behind him again. The silence is palpable.

“...three?” Vars says. “That’s not a lot of leads.”

“We only need one. Not that one, I think.” Grogu points to a red dot, far away from Tatooine’s space. “They wouldn’t risk prisoner transport across a distance that large.”

“Right, yeah.” Vars falls silent; then, he points at a different dot, much closer. “Not this one either. It’s too close. Too risky.”

Their attention shifts to the last dot remaining. 

“Caine?” Grogu’s voice is soft. “What’s that one?”

“That? It’s-” A dark shadow flickers across the sharpshooter’s expression. For a moment, almost as if he were considering not telling them, Mayfeld is silent.

“‘S a planet called Morak. I’ve been there. And yes,” Mayfeld grits out, “the Empire was there before.”

Grogu leans into his seat. “So, Morak. Inhabited?”

“Yeah. It’s a jungle planet. Back when I...'visited’, I blew up one of their refineries.”

“No shot,” Vars makes a soft whistling sound. “Alone?”

“I had a couple…pals, with me.”

“Your crew?” Something about Mayfeld’s tone interests him. Grogu eyes the holographic projection of the sharpshooter; eyeing his expression. 

Briefly, something like bitter amusement crosses the sharpshooter’s face. “No,” he says, “a different friend. An ally, more like.”

Mayfeld doesn’t elaborate. Which only serves to spark Grogu’s interests higher — the sharpshooter could never stop talking on a good day, and it’s even worse on bad ones.

“Why’d they settle down there again if you already blew up one of their refineries, though?” Vars tilts his head. “You’d think they’d learn.”

“If the Order could learn, they wouldn’t be trying to follow the Empire’s bullshit,” Mayfeld points out, rather helpfully, actually. “Besides, they were there in the first place ‘cause of the planet’s resources.”

“What’d it do?”

“Think, ‘big boom’.”

A cold chill settles onto Grogu’s shoulders. “You think they’re…’using’ the prisoners there, then?”

He doesn’t have to turn around to see the way Vars had gone still.

“‘S likely.” Mayfeld doesn’t look too pleased himself; a grim look on his face. “What’s your game plan? You got more Mandos hiding in that ship of yours? Must be crowded.”

“No more,” Vars answers, for the both of them, “just us.”

“Need some backup?”

“No.” Grogu shakes his head. His lip curls at the idea of facing off such an enemy with such little numbers, but he goes on to say, “Not your fight. Can’t ask you to do that.”

“What if I said you’re not asking?”

“Answer’s still no.”

“Damn it. Kid-”

“You can’t,” Vars interjects. He’s shifted to stand next to Grogu’s seat; his arms are crossed over his cuirass. “It’s a…Mandalorian thing.”

Mayfeld is silent, for a moment. Those sharpshooter’s eyes glance between the both of them; the flickering, grainy holograph probably doesn’t do the look in his eyes justice.

Finally, Mayfeld sighs out loud. He looks annoyed. “Are all Mandos as suicidal as you two, or…?”

“We gotta go. It’s been too long already.” Grogu reaches for a button on his console, ready to hang up on the line. He hesitates. “...thank you, Caine.”

Mayfeld pricks up an eyebrow, and for a second, his expression softens. Then, that coy sharpshooter’s swagger is back. “Don’t make it a habit. Come back alive, and maybe I’ll tell you the story of Morak.”

“In that case, I’d rather be dead.”

“He means yes,” Vars corrects. There’s something Grogu wouldn’t yet dare call a smile, in his voice. “I’d like to hear it.”

“Ooh, would you look at that? A Mando that’s actually likeable? Never thought I’d see the day. You’re fond of giving out names, or-?”

“Good- bye , Caine.”

“Now hang on a-”

Grogu hangs up, and the cockpit falls into silence — Mayfeld’s hologram disappears, leaving only that of the map hovering above the console.

“...Grogu?” Vars speaks out, at last. 

“Hmm?” Grogu doesn’t turn to look at him. He finds that he…can’t; he’s frozen, in place, staring out at the expanse of dark dotted with white pinpricks of stars. There are a lot of them. The galaxy’s a big place.

There’s a soft hiss of air, then. Grogu feels his breath get caught in his lungs.

“...it’s not just Plynne,” Vars says. His voice — his real one, not altered by the vocoder — is so much softer, so much… closer. It makes a shiver run down Grogu’s spine. “Told you they were protecting some Foundlings?”

It takes Grogu too long to draw his mind away from Vars’ voice, and back to the matter at hand. Another shiver runs its course through him; this time, decidedly very much less pleasant.

“They took some Foundlings, too, didn't they.”

It’s not a question. Despite that, Vars answers, hoarsely, “Yeah.”

Funny, Grogu thinks, every time they end up alone, the silence gets impossibly more daunting.

“We’ll get them. We’ll help them,” Grogu says. To break that silence, maybe. To reassure Vars, maybe. To reassure himself, more than likely. Still, he doesn’t turn to look at him. He can’t. 

He tries his best, then. Grogu manages only to get his eyes skittering to the floor. He can see the toes of Vars’ boots. “You should get some rest. I’ll get us there.”

Those boots shift. “But-”

“You said you hadn’t been sleeping.”

“Yeah, but-”

“Vars,” Grogu sighs. He draws his eyes away from those boots; returns his gaze towards the window, towards space. “I’ll get us there. I promise.”

In all truth, Vars had every right not to believe him. Grogu’s fond of lying — they both know this.

And yet, despite that — despite it all, really — Grogu ends up listening to the way Vars’ footsteps sound against the floor of his ship; listening to the way they steadily fade away.

Not completely, though. Even when Vars is probably back in the cargo hold, looking for the bunks, Grogu can still hear him. He’s not as bothered by it now, surprisingly; he got used to the additional noises a lot faster than he did the quiet.

…he’s not fond of thinking about going through that quiet, again.

With a sigh, Grogu pulls up the coordinates for Morak, and activates the hyperdrive.

Chapter Text

There’s a crick in his neck when Grogu wakes up.

For a moment, panic flares, and he’s back in the palace — he’s back in his room, and the nights are cold and long and he is alone and he is alone and the cuffs are on too tight-

Huffing, heaving, everything begins to bleed back in. Huffing, heaving, Grogu grabs onto that crick in his neck, and his fingers meet the fabric of his cowl; claws grazing against the cool beskar of his armour.

Huffing, heaving for breath, Grogu stares around the cockpit until he actually begins to see it.

Oh.

Oh.

He fell asleep on the pilot’s seat. That…that was it. That explains the soreness. Nothing else to it.

He’s fine. 

He shivers, softly. Grogu breathes out a low, weary groan; he shakes out his head, and knocks the final pieces of his brain back into place.

He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s not in the palace. He’s not in the palace. He’s fine.

It’s okay.

His console is beeping. That must be what woke him up. Blearily, Grogu shifts up in his seat and stares blankly at the buttons.

“...oh fierfek!” 

He grabs onto the controls. Just in time, the Crest II launches out of hyperspace with a shudder so violent it knocks him out of his chair and onto his feet.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit . He struggles to get the Crest II steady, clamping his feet down, and the ship groans and whines in protest. Although thankfully, soon enough, it stops shuddering and rightens.

Grogu breathes out a sigh of relief, one that’s soon followed by a spike of guilt. That’s on him for falling asleep at the wheel. Haar’chak (damn it) , that was stupid.

There are heavy and frantic footsteps echoing against the wall of his ship; it’s a sound that makes Grogu’s ears twitch. A second later, Vars stumbles into the cockpit.

"We're being shot at!"

"We are not being shot at." Grogu steers around a moon. They’re lucky they didn’t end up in the moon. Hyperspace travel can be so finicky.

“We’re being shot at! Who’s shooting at us?” Through the corner of his eye, Grogu sees the way Vars leans heavily against the doorway. He’s panting — eyes blown wide; frantic and disoriented. “What do we do?”

"No one is shooting at us, Vars." Grogu thinks he's burning; staring at Vars' face makes him uncomfortable. He glances away. "We're not being shot at. We're fine."

Ah, Vars had been asleep, hadn’t he? That mustn’t have been the best way to wake up. Or even a good way. That feeling of guilt marginally grows, although curiously, it’s paired with quiet amusement.

Through his peripheral, Grogu watches as Vars slowly sinks into one of the passenger seats 

"We're not being shot at?" Vars echoes.

"We are not being shot at, no." Would it be mean to laugh? It'd probably be really mean. He shouldn’t.

Vars’ Song settles away from its frenzied pacing, slumping down into a vivid kind of relief . Grogu can hear him sigh out; hears the way it hitches, just barely at the end. 

“We’re not being shot at,” Vars echoes — this time, more to himself. His Song gains a confused note to it. “Then what was that all about? I fell off the bunk, Grogs.”

Ah. “We dropped out of hyperspace,” Grogu offers, and prays Vars doesn’t ask anymore.

He can feel Vars’ gaze boring into his back. “That was not how dropping out of hyperspace should be like.”

“It is. Sometimes.”

“It is not.”

Grogu’s grip on the controls tightens. He knows he shouldn’t really bother trying to hide it; they were a team, now, like it or not. And he wants to like it; he wants to be able to trust Vars again.

That includes not lying about something this stupid. Logically, of course, he knows this.

Still, Grogu can’t get his voice to be any louder than a mutter, “I fell asleep. It won’t happen again.”

Vars is silent, for a long while. 

“You fell asleep.”

“Yeah.” Grogu distracts himself by steering them towards their destination. He’s grateful for the distraction; Vars is making him fidgety. He’s not fond of the feeling — the foreignness of such sensation, especially coming from…him. “Sorry.”

“...you could’ve-” Vars stops himself, then. He sounds like he’s struggling for the words; bits and pieces of it stumbling out, before he finally manages, “You could’ve woken me up, y’know.”

Grogu doesn’t think he can answer that. So, he doesn’t.

“There it is,” he says, instead. Grand timing; they approach a planet covered in green. “Morak.”

It’s funny how often planets are a whole thing, rather than multiple things together. Like how Tatooine was a desert planet, how Morak is a jungle planet, and how Mayfeld’s planet is a forest planet. He wonders if there are any planets out there that has jungles, and deserts, and forests, altogether on one surface.

It sounds nice.

Vars falls silent, thankfully letting the whole ‘falling asleep on the wheel’ thing go. Or at least, so Grogu had assumed.

Very softly, such that it was barely audible, Vars whispers, “You really have been lonely, haven’t you?”

It’s impressive, how Grogu manages to keep himself from flinching — from reacting outwardly in any way. He thinks he should be impressed with himself. He thinks that’s a foul thing to be so impressed with.

They enter Morak’s atmosphere, and Grogu flies low enough to watch the treetops fly past them. Or, he supposes, it’s rather them flying past the trees.

“Hey, grab a datapad?”  

“Uh-” Vars shifts. “Where?”

“There was one downstairs.”

“You want me to go downstairs.” It’s hard to pinpoint the tone of Vars’ voice. Not quite annoyance, not quite amusement, not quite disbelief. “I just got upstairs.”

“Fine, then.” Grogu shoots him a look; briefly too annoyed to be bothered by the sight of his face. “I’ll just fly over Morak forever until we get lucky. Maybe they’ll shoot us down or somethin’.”

Vars grunts, muttering something low and incomprehensible underneath his breath, but he gets up and disappears into the ship. Grogu snorts softly at his back; for a second, revelling in the quiet humoured warmth in his chest, before it’ll inevitably sour.

It does. Grogu glances away, eyebrows furrowing. He settles back into the pilot’s seat.

This feels…weird. He’s glad to be with Vars again, he thinks — he’s glad, because he missed him. He missed him, he did. But it's-

They’re not…right. They’re distant. They’re snappy. Vars is angry at him — Grogu doesn’t need any Force-sensitivity to know that.

Tch. 

That’s unfair. What, did Vars think he wanted to leave? That he wanted to turn his back on his father’s people? That he likes being alone, being haunted, being hunted to this degree? Vars doesn’t have the right to be angry — if anything, Grogu should be the one to-

Vars’ footsteps echo against the ship. “Okay,” he says, flopping heavily back into a different passenger seat. Jeez, he can’t just pick one? “What’s up?”

Grogu forces a steady breath out of his lungs; forces his irritation to steer well clear away from his voice, which remains cool and unbothered through the vocoder. “Mayfeld should’ve sent us the cords for the prisoner base.”

“Mayfeld?”

Haar’chak. “Er- Caine. My bad.”

Vars is staring at him again. He does that a lot. Has he always done that, or has his gaze been so heavy lately, that Grogu can’t help but feel its weight more daunting? “So are they Mayfeld, or Caine?”

Grogu gnaws on his bottom lip. “Now? Caine.”

“Ah.” That seems to be enough of an explanation for Vars — even though Grogu knows that Mayfeld’s particular name change doesn’t stem in that way, he supposes there’s no harm in letting Vars believe what he wants. 

He shouldn’t have even let it slip in the first place. That was sloppy.

And if he wants to make it off Morak alive, he needs to stop being sloppy.

“Okay, got it.” Vars pauses; then, confusion in his voice, goes, “What do I…do with it?”

“You-” Grogu pauses. There’s a rather unfortunate thought nagging at the back of his head. “...Vars, have you ever been on the field before?”

“...what’s that got to do with anything?” 

Woah. That’s a lot of defensiveness. It’s actually overwhelming; Grogu has to clamp down hard onto his own Song, to prevent it from singing with the same Tunes.

He doesn’t think he was all that successful, because Grogu snaps, “It’s got to do with a lot, Vars. Have you really not been out once?”

“I had my apprenticeship ,” Vars hisses. “At least one of us needs to be giving back. Not all of us have the luxury to just run off .”

“You think this is a luxury?!” Grogu whirls around, keeping one hand on the controls. His shoulders are up to his ears, and those are pinned back. “You think I like being out here?”

“Well, what else am I supposed to think?!” Vars launches himself to his feet, swaying softly with the ship’s motions. That doesn’t stop him from narrowing his eyes; from gesturing wildly with his hands. “You leave for months on end! Not a word, not a message- Nothing to tell us if you’re even still alive!”

“I wasn’t-!”

“ Well, I thought you WERE! I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!”  

Vars presses his fist against the front of his cuirass; directly over his chest. He’s heaving, and it’s with a voice, choked back, does he breathe, “I wasn’t expecting you to even respond. I- I grieved.”

The silence chokes down his lungs. The quiet is cruel. The emptiness is harrowing.

A thousand different ways he could describe the pause, just then — broken only by their haggard breathing.

Vars’ eyes go wide. “Grogs-”

“Vars, I-” The words catch on his tongue. “I didn’t-”

“No, Grogu-” Vars points past him, scrabbling back. “LOOK!”

Grogu whips his head back towards the window. A large mountain is quickly making its way straight at them. Or, rather-

“Haar’chak!” He grabs onto the controls with both hands and throws it all to the side. The Crest II careens heavily, practically toppling over. The arm of the pilot’s seat digs into his side. “Hang on!”

They graze past the side of the mountain; there’s a shrill screech of branches and rock against metal. It throws the Crest II impossibly more out of balance, shuddering and heaving out of his control-

Gritting his teeth, he throws it all into controlling their fall; lessening the damage as much as he could. The Crest II lands heavily, and the crash ends up throwing him up against the console — giving him something he knows that’ll bruise.

And then? There’s silence.

Grogu heaves in a breath — coughs through the shudder in his lungs, the spasming of his chest. “Vars?”

“Alive,” Vars responds. He sounds dazed.

Grogu turns around in his seat, taking in the way his brother is practically sprawled on the ground — bless him, still trying to support himself with one arm braced against one passenger seat.

Grogu snorts, softly. He ducks his head, trying his best to stifle his laughter; he isn’t any more successful when those chuckles turned strained, and when they’re barely more than whimpers.

“Grogu…” Vars begins.

“No. It’s- I didn’t- You’re not-” Damn it. Damn it all.

Grogu slides off his seat, landing on his feet. He moves, stopping only when he’s but a few steps away from Vars — the closest they’ve been, since…since forever. Gods, it’s been forever.

He makes himself look at Vars; through the burning, through the aching, taking in every little feature on his face for the first time since forever. Grogu looks at him — actually looks at him. He breathes in a shudder. 

“I didn’t…mean,” he says, struggling for the words but, gods, he’s trying, “to hurt you. I’m- I'm sorry.”

Vars shifts, sitting up more. He blinks slowly.

“...for leaving?” he tries. A soft note of hopefulness joins his Song.

Grogu stifles the spark of guilt he feels, then, when he shakes his head and that soft note shatters like glass. “Not for that. I can’t be. I needed to leave.”

“But why-”

“You know why.” Grogu frowns. “Or…do you? Did I not tell you?”

In all honesty, it’s mainly a haze. When Grogu tries to recall, it’s mostly of rain, of cold, of stinging pain around his wrists and for a moment he thinks the scars throb. His memory consists of sharp words and harsh arguments and words that foul his tongue. When he thinks about it-

He doesn’t. Think about it, that is. He tries not to.

But surely, amidst all of that, he actually told Vars what was going on, right?

…Did that really not happen? Did Grogu really not tell him?

Vars stares at him, for a while. The look on his face is unreadable.

But the silence is telling enough. 

Grogu leans back; something like horror, something clicking into place. Everything recontextualizes.

Oh.

“....My…buir,” Grogu begins. He pretends not to see the way Vars stiffens, the way his eyes go wide — as if he couldn’t believe this was actually happening. “He was murdered. Killed, trying to protect me.”

Vars doesn’t quite react, yet. He knows this, of course. Grogu had told him.

There, just then, there’s that heavy undercurrent of rage simmering in his blood. Thinking about it, talking about it no less, sparks a fury indescribable — a wrath unstoppable. He knows that they’re here, now, for Plynne and the Foundlings.

But after? He’s still got a job to do — a duty, to fulfill.

He likes to think it’s something Buir would’ve done. He wishes he had the chance to be sure.

“I thought both died that day,” Grogu continues. My father and me, along with him, he only just keep himself from saying. That’s a truth he doesn’t think Vars is quite ready for, yet.

Instead, he says, “ My buir and his murderer.” Grogu’s claws dig into his palms; a dull ache through the patchy gloves. “Turns out the demagolka is still alive. That’s what I found out, the day the Mand’alor came.”

Finally, blessed understanding enters the look in Vars’ eyes — the rhythms of Vars’ Song. “So you talking to the Aruetii (outsider) in the dungeons-”

“Was tryna look for him, yeah.” Grogu grabs onto his other arm, shoulders subtly curling in. He can’t help the bitterness in his voice. “Hasn’t been working out that well.”

“I…” Vars breathes. He shifts, again; sitting up and leaning forward. His eyes are wide and soft — tunes Singing with that same motif. It’s like a confession, softly whispered, when he says, “I didn’t know.”

Grogu glances away, his eyes skittering to the floor. “‘Course not,” he says, gruffly. “I didn’t tell you.”

He can hear Morak’s wildlife calling outside the ship; birds chirping, crickets warbling, leaves rustling. He can hear it ever more clearly, now that they’ve fallen back into that silence — a thoughtful, solemn quiet.

“I can’t go back to the palace, Vars,” like tearing off a bandage, Grogu says. He continues, staring at the floor as if it is who he’s talking to, “Not until I’m done. Not until he’s dead. Not until I’ve taken what is mine.”

It’s his right. It’s his right to kill. It’s his right to be angry. It’s his right to tear every scream, enact every terror, strike down with every agony until the Moff is begging for death. It. Is. His. Right.

Grogu will not let it slip by him.

But all of that will have to come later. Now, they are on Morak, and Vars is staring at him with wide eyes but not a lick of protest — not in his Song, not on his tongue. Now, Vars’ anger has vanished, and he’s just…

…sad.

Grogu holds out an arm. Vars blinks at it.

“You’re my brother, Vars,” Grogu murmurs. I want to trust you, he doesn’t say. 

Impossibly more, Vars’ eyes soften. He stares down at Grogu’s arm as if it holds all the answers — solves every problem, and yet takes from a cost too great.

Vars grabs hold of Grogu’s arm. His grasp is firm. 

Grogu tugs him back onto his feet. 

“Brothers,” Vars echoes back at him. You can trust me, he doesn’t say. Slowly, he’s nodding; when his eyes fall shut, for a second, there’s nothing but quiet acceptance upon the look on his face. 

It’s not enough. Grogu knows it’s not enough. Grogu knows that Vars knows that it’s not enough. That there’s more to say, more to convince — Grogu knows that Vars wants him back at the palace. Vars knows, now, that Grogu’s not going. 

And they both know just how stubborn the other one can be.

So this, now, isn’t enough. But it had been a standard month since Plynne and the Foundlings are taken, and every second that ticks by kicks away at their chances for survival.

It isn’t enough.

It’ll have to do.

Vars squeezes his arm. Then, he lets go, and steps back.

Grogu breathes out a sigh. He bends down to pick up the datapad from where it had fallen, pulling up the coordinates and allowing a projection of Morak to appear — the small, red dot blinking and blinking at them.

There, little red dot, the place where Plynne and the Foundlings are being kept and ‘put to good use’. Grogu wasn’t surprised to find out it was a mine, neither was he particularly pleased. Damned fucking imperials.

“Can the ship fly?” Vars peers at the projection, crossing his arms. “That’s quite a-ways away.”

“She’ll fly. She’s been through worse,” Grogu grunts, ties his fury at the injustice down like wrangling a beast — later, to those who deserve it. He tosses the datapad back towards Vars, who fumbles to try and catch it. 

“Y’know, that just makes me feel sorry for it,” Vars snorts, shaking his head. “Poor ship.”

Now, usually, Grogu would retort with some light-hearted banter of his own. But reaching into his own mind makes him turn up empty, and he instead answers with an awkward, half-lopsided shrug. 

“It’s not too far.” Grogu clambers back onto the pilot’s seat, flicking switches. The Crest II whines in protest. Grogu scowls at it, and almost reluctantly her engines begin to roar. Staggering, they lift themselves back into the air. “Not long now.”

He can feel Vars’ gaze boring into his back again; burning. He doesn’t get it — they talked, didn’t they? He knows it doesn’t fix everything, but it should’ve fixed something. Isn’t that how they always said it worked?

Grogu doesn’t bring it up. Neither, then, does Vars.

“Stop.”

Well, one doesn’t just stop a ship, unless one likes being shot headfirst forward. Grogu doesn’t say as much, though, and compromises enough by slowing the Crest II down. “We’re here?”

“We’re close.” With Vars apparently clueless on how to just send a couple of coordinates to the ship’s console, where Grogu would’ve been able to keep an eye on, it’d been him who’d been keeping an eye on their progress. 

Now, Goran’ika rises and moves to stand behind Grogu’s seat. He peers out the transparisteel windows, eyebrows furrowed. “I can’t see it, though. Must be hidden underneath the trees.”

Grogu thinks about it, for a moment. Then, spying an empty clearing, he steers the Crest II towards it. “We’ll walk, then.”

“We’ll what now?”

“Walk.” The Crest II rumbles at him — almost as if it were disgruntled. Grogu resists the urge to grunt back at it, because that’ll probably make him look crazy. 

Look. You’re stuck on a haunted ship for weeks on end, month after month. At some point you start answering the whispers, just to have something to do, ‘someone’ to talk to. Don’t look at him like that — you just don’t get it. That’s a good thing.

With one, final, spiteful little rumble, the Crest II’s engines quieten into silence. Grogu pushes away from the console, stifling a grunt as his ache from the crash decides to make itself known, for a second.

“You do this a lot?” Vars has an eyebrow pricked, staring down at him. He’s still seated.

Grogu stops. He gives Vars a look. “...walk? Yes, Vars. I usually walk. Big fan of it.”

“Oh shut up- You know what I mean!” Vars stands up when Grogu walks past him. He peers down the ladder when Grogu begins to descend. “Why don’t we just go in, shoot from the ship?”

Grogu stops climbing. He stares up in sheer and utter incredulity. “...oh my gods, you really have never been on the field before.”

“Hey!”

“What? Orihaat (it’s the truth), no?” With a grunt, Grogu lands on his feet into the cargo hold. He steps back to let Vars climb down. “This ship is the only way off Morak, Vars. ‘Sides, they’re probably- Actually, pass me the ‘pad?”

Vars obliges, and Grogu quickly pulls up the blueprints that Mayfeld had included with the coordinates. A projection of the mine hovers in the air, flickering softly a couple of times.

“See? Plynne and the Foundlings are probably down,” Grogu points vaguely at the lower levels — not completely bottom, but about a third of the way, “here.”

Vars tilts his head. “How’d you tell? Oh! Is it,” his eyes widen, “the- uh. Force? Your magic? Do you use your magic when you’re on the field?” 

Grogu stares at him. “...it says ‘prisoner cells’ here, Vars.”

“...Oh.”

“I mean- I do?” Oh, jeez, Vars feeling bad makes him feel bad. “Sure I do. When I fight. In general. It’s like breathing. Just- Anyway, what were we talking about?”

Vars makes a little sound; like a laugh, almost. It makes that tension seep away from Grogu’s shoulders. “The prisoners, yeah? They’re there?”

“Yeah. So, uh- Going in with the ship? That’ll just affect these upper layers, see-”

“Ohh yeah- Yeah okay, I get it.” Vars leans back, crossing his arms. “So, we infiltrate. Get in.”

With a soft click and a hum, the projection dissipates. Grogu practically throws the datapad onto a nearby crate. “Pretty much.”

“We don’t have an army.” Thoughtfully, Vars taps at his chin with a finger. “It’d be easier with an army.”

Grogu snorts, softly. “Most things are.”

He makes towards his weapons cabinet, tugging its doors open. The sparseness of it all makes him frown. He vaguely remembers how it was when Buir had it — Buir had an arsenal that Grogu never did get around to getting. He doesn’t even have a rifle.

Vars reaches from behind him, snagging his spare blaster and clipping it onto his belt with his knives. “That’s…not a whole lot of stuff, Grogs,” he says, stating the obvious.

Grogu grunts.

“Wow. That’s helpful.”

“Like what you said was any better.”

Vars scowls at him; Song briefly flitting up in tunes of annoyance, before simmering back down. He huffs a sigh instead and holds out his fingers. “Okay, so, between the two of us, we’ve got two blasters. My knives. My whipcord n’ whistling birds. Your shield n’ grappling hook…if that could be a weapon.”

“It could.” He’s used it as such, before.

“Right. Then, uh- Your vibroblade. Like…five explosive charges in that cabinet. And…?”

Grogu tilts his head. “Spear.”

“...spear.” Vars sounds…surprised. “You still…have it?”

Grogu doesn’t make himself look, this time. He can’t. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“...huh.”

Huh. Huh, he says. Wonderful. Tons of things for Grogu to work off from.

His fingers twitch, and he resists the urge to reach for his spear. Instead, he grabs all five of those explosive charges. “That everything?”

“Uh…yeah, probably?”

“Cool.” He shuts the doors of the now-empty cabinet. “Grab your helmet n’ let’s go.”

Vars stares at him. “The fact that that’s ‘everything’ isn’t a good thing, Grogs.”

“Well, we don’t have time to go shopping.” Grogu makes towards the ramp. With a hiss and a groan after a button push, it begins to lower. “C’mon, then. Else you wanna stay in the ship.”

Vars is still staring at him. It’s something like horror in his eyes, now, but at least he’s moving backwards. Probably to get his helmet. Hopefully. 

“How have you survived this long if you’re this crazy?”

“Magic.” Grogu waggles his fingers. “Literally.”

“Ah-” Something settles in Vars’ eyes. “Can’t you just- Procure us some gear, then?”

“What?” Grogu frowns. “No? That’s not how that works.”

About a third of the way down, the ramp stops — apparently stuck. Something must’ve been knocked loose from the crash earlier. Grogu scowls at it; the creaking of the hinges could almost be said of the ship laughing at him.

“Well, y’know-” Vars’ modulated voice signifies that the di’kut (idiot) has gotten his helmet on, at last. His footsteps echo in the ship as he approaches the ramp as well. “Have you tried?”

Grogu elbows Vars’ knees as soon as he’s in range. Vars yelps. “Hey!”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Obviously not.”

Yeah, the ramp wasn’t going to go down completely anytime soon. Grogu stomps on it a couple of times, before admitting defeat and just clambering down. “Ugh. Caine just had that fixed. He’s gonna be upset.”

“You’re worried about it?”

“Not worry. Just peeved. He doesn’t shut up.”

“He cares about you.”

Grogu lands on wet mulch and damp grass. He takes a second to answer, and when he does, it’s softly; “He shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“He just shouldn’t. You heard him- I give him nothing in return. I’m like a,” Grogu gestures, vaguely, “a- a parasite.”

That’s fitting.

“You’re not-” Vars begins.

“No, I am. And I don’t care. I need him. I’ll keep using him for as long as I need.” His claws are digging into his palms, again. Grogu turns away, puts his back to his brother, and slowly works on uncurling those fingers of his. “He cares about me. I won’t do the same for him.”

Grogu doesn’t want to listen to the notes of Vars’ Song. Grogu doesn’t want to look at the way Vars is staring at him. Grogu waits until he can hear the sound of Vars’ boots on the ground, then taps at his vambrace to lift up the ramp.

“...is it far?” Vars asks, instead of what Grogu knows he wants to ask. “The mine?”

“Not too far,” Grogu replies. He doesn’t let himself dwell on the relief. “Come on. Good exercise.”

Vars snorts, but falls into step behind him. “You sound like my buir.”

“Ouch.”

Together, they enter the depths of Morak’s rainforests.

The mine is a hidden thing — quietly existing. Above ground, it’s only one level of grey rock and harsh edges; dark windows that betrayed nothing of its depths, and a cargo truck tucked neatly to its side. 

Scattered around are its troopers, with their blaring white armour stained brown with mud and gunk — some are on the ground, some take watch atop the structure, and many more are surely underneath.

There, underground, is where the true horrors begin.

Grogu…worries. For the Foundlings, especially. He remembers the lengths their buire (parents) took to bring them back to the rowdy energy all children should have. Captivity…being captured, being imprisoned, being chained changes you, as a person. 

He would know.

Vars and he circle the structure many times, searching for a way in. Grogu had hoped the blueprints to be outdated or incomplete, and that there would be a hidden back entryway.

He was wrong.

“One way in, one way out,” says Vars, as they wait for the cover of night. He’s staring in the direction of the mine — they’ve settled a good few distances away to avoid detection, and Grogu could only barely catch the glimpses of grey from between the foliage.

Grogu’s got his knees pulled close to his chest. He taps a finger against the root he leans against, thoughtfully — trying to recall and reconstruct the blueprint in his memory. “It gets winded down there. The halls. We could lose them. We just need to get in.”

“Easier said than done.” Vars leans backwards; the back of his helmet collides with the tree behind him with a quiet thunk. He’s silent; thinking, as well, no doubt. “We need to get close.”

“Right.”

“...how do we make them let us get close?”

Grogu’s tapping is rapid-fire, now. Then, just as suddenly as the thumps of his fingers against wood were, he stops.

“I’ve got something.”

They make their move in the cover of the dark, just for the advantage any shadows may give them. Given what little they have, anything counts.

With the nozzle of Vars’ blaster pressing against his back, they emerge out of the trees.

"Halt!" The closest trooper cries out — it alerts the whole area to the arrival, and Grogu finds himself faced with a lot more blaster nozzles than just Vars'. A flashlight shines in his face, and he squints his eyes against it. Grand.

The vocoder of the trooper’s helmet would've done well to hide the uncertainty in their voice, if neither Grogu nor Vars had grown up listening to such voices. He knows what they see is rather…conflicting, to the legends they hear. 

Good. Their confusion will slow them down.

He can hear Vars breathe in a quiet, sharp breath of air — quickly, for a moment, gathering his strength.

"Hey," he then calls. Vars' voice is smooth and steady, dripping in confidence. Grogu can feel the nozzle dig into his back, for a moment. "This belong to you? Caught 'em slinking 'round town, lookin' for trouble. We didn't take too kindly to that, yanno."

In the safety of his helmet, Grogu frowns. 

Okay, well, the accent was a bit much. Does anybody even speak like that here? They’re not on Tatooine.

Then again, Vars had always been a storyteller. At least he seemed to be having fun.

The first trooper takes a cautious step forward, followed closely by one of their brethren. Grogu subtly shifts his arms from where they're lifted up, level with his head — that universal gesture of surrender.

They peer curiously at Vars' face. Hopefully, the unwavering expression distracts them from spying his helmet, slung on the back of his belt and hidden in the cloak Grogu had lent him.

“We don’t recognise you,” the first trooper announces, at last.

Grogu can hear a small note of panic join in Vars’ Song; listens to the way it’s quickly squashed down. “You know everybody?”

The second trooper mutters something too lowly to catch. It makes the first one grunt, though, apparently conceding. 

“Not one of ours,” first trooper says. Then, “But it could be. How much you want for it?”

(‘It,’ Grogu notes, bitterly.)

Vars is silent, for a while. Then, “You farmin’ rhydonium in there?”

A wave of tension sweeps through the troopers. Grogu bites on his bottom lip — Vars knows what he’s doing, he reasons. Keep your cool, Djarin. Trust him. 

There’s a quiet whisper of fabric, as if Vars’ had shifted. “Hey hey, easy,” he says, quickly and placatingly, “I ain’t want no trouble, alright? Just wanna see.”

The first trooper tilts their head, slowly. “‘See’.”

“Maybe snag a handful- I dunno. It’s useful, ain’t it? Would fetch a hefty price.” The blaster nozzle digs into his back again, as Vars gestures towards him. “Fair trade to give you one of them. How much is beskar on the market?”

There’s a small note of mild disgust, singing in Vars’ Song, now. Grogu knows his own melody is probably the same. Beskar is more than a price; the thought of it on sale, where anyone could get their hands on it, feels like sacrilege. 

And to Vars, Goran’ika, the feeling is probably a bit worse. Grogu’s got to admit, now, that the commitment is impressive. Expected, but impressive.

A third trooper steps closer towards him. They lean in, shoving their face close to his helmet. It’s the equivalent of sticking your fingers in the maw of a loth wolf, but Grogu makes himself go still — keeps his arms raised up over his head. 

The trooper scoffs, softly — a sound Grogu can only catch due to how close they are. “Think this one’s broken,” they mutter. Then, they poke him, right in the visor. “Never seen one so complacent.”

“They’re not broken,” Vars protests — accent briefly dropping in his real defensiveness. For a moment, then, he flounders and Grogu practically wills for his brother to regain his act. The half-second that ticks by feels impossibly long and harrowing.

“But if you go pokin’ it like that, it just might.” Vars huffs. “I beat it in a fight. It’s defeated. Any of you ever fought a Mandalorian before?”

There’s a pointed silence.

“There. You ain’t got no idea what it’s like, n’ don't pretend that you do. Now,” Vars’ blaster shoves him forward, a step; Grogu stumbles. “Do you want it or not?”

Yeowch. He knows it’s an act; he knows it’s necessary; he knows Vars doesn’t actually mean any of that. 

But, still. Yeowch.

The second trooper is muttering quickly to the first. Meanwhile, the third leans back, grumbling something softly — something Grogu doesn’t bother paying any mind.

“Fine,” the first trooper says, at last. At the word, many lower their weapons. At a beckon, a fourth trooper begins to step closer. “But you get to look. Nothing more.”

“Aw, what? That’s not what we agreed on!”

“We didn’t ‘agree’ to anything,” they spit. “You’re lucky you’re not shot dead where you stand. Cuff ‘em.”

Grogu feels himself go still. 

Everything else falls away. His focus narrows, tunnels, towards the fourth trooper — who is stepping closer, and closer, and steadily so closer. They’re reaching to their belt, and the motion is almost slowed — almost stretched on, like an agony.

He catches only a glimpse of something shiny and vaguely circular. It’s enough.

Grogu flings a hand forward, and the fourth trooper drops the cuffs — silver upon dark brown mulch. They reach towards their neck, staggering; choking. With every squeeze of his fingers, he feels the way each note of their Song abruptly ends.

He can hear shouting, but it’s as though through mud. Gritting his teeth, Grogu snaps his fingers into a closed fist — the trooper falls to the ground, dead.

The sound of a blaster being fired cuts through his haze. Grogu moves before he thinks; lifts up his shield, and watches the streaks of red fly into harmless sparks — like fireworks. Troopers appear in his vision, one by one — glaring targets of white.

His spear’s weight in his hand, its click ringing in the back of his head, Grogu moves.

The first trooper meets his spear. The second, with his shield battering through their helmet — the plastoid giving way like freshly fallen snow, their skull shattering against the rock beneath.

Another one appears in his peripheral, but they fall before he could react; a throwing knife sticking out of their chest. He seizes their blaster and takes out two, three, four — until the weapon is whining in his hands, and he smashes it through the visor of the closest figure of white sprinting past him. 

“-galaar!”

They were at least three, up on the roof. Grogu looks to see, but they’re gone. The building is covered in scorch marks and carbon scoring. 

“Jai’galaar!”

With a twist, there he hears a snap. Grogu lets himself go down with the trooper, pulling his arm away from their neck. He stands up.

“GROGU!” There’s a firm grip on his arm. Grogu twists around-

Vars is staring at him, wide-eyed. He’s bleeding from a graze on his forehead, and the sight of blood trickling down his face is so familiar-

“Vars,” Grogu says — it comes out as a croak, for some reason. He reaches up with a hand, lightly resting his fingers against the side of his face; it leaves behind soft smudges of red. Odd — he doesn’t think he’s bleeding. “You’re injured.”

Vars blinks. He blinks, again, and an odd look enters his eyes. 

“You’re back?” His brother asks. There’s urgency in his voice. “Are you with me?”

Odd question. Where else would he be? He thinks he answers as much.

Vars’ odd look only grows. He pulls back, leaving Grogu’s hand hanging in the empty air. 

Then, he grabs onto it, and stands.

“Say it,” Vars says. He’s holding Grogu’s arm in one hand, his hand in the other — his gaze pinning, Grogu can’t look away. “Say you’re with me.”

Grogu blinks, slowly. “I’m with you,” he says, and the words taste like a lie.

That’s enough to satisfy him. Vars steps back, again, and lets him go.

The area is…quiet. Grogu looks around, taking in the various states of the various trooper corpses — white with brown with red. One of them, a few distances away, is stuck with his spear protruding out of their back.

He steps towards it and retrieves his spear. 

The beskar-alloy, what little of it isn’t covered in blood and muck, shines in the glint of soft moonlight. It whistles, like a song, when he spins it upright.

“Come on.” Without looking back, Grogu makes to the now unguarded front door. “Before reinforcements come.”

Vars’ gaze burns into his back. His brother says nothing. His Song is a cacophony Grogu cannot begin to untangle.

The inside of the building is cool and dry, whereas the outside had been warm and humid. The sound of their footsteps echoes loudly; hurried thumps sound back to them like a poor mockery. They cast harsh shadows against the white fluorescent lights.

Grogu turns right as soon as he can. He trails his hand along the wall; red streaks smudging. He shakes out his arm and a bit of red spatters on the ground, like painted stars.

“Do we have to talk about it?” Vars asks, quietly from behind him. He must’ve put his helmet back on at some point.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Grogu replies, with a slight frown. He turns left. 

"That wasn't the plan."

"No. It wasn't. " He adds nothing else.

“Do we know where we’re going?” Vars asks, a bit more firmly this time.

“No.” They reach stairs. Grogu goes down without hesitation. “Come on.”

He can hear Vars sigh, before he hears footsteps keeping pace.

They get to the third level before more troopers arrive. One of them has Vars’ knife embedded into their neck within the first second. One other, Grogu runs his spear through — uses their body to smash into the next.

They carry on, leaving the bodies behind. Grogu doesn’t spare them another glance.

He thinks it’s the…sixth? Or seventh level. The Force sparks a warning, and Grogu abruptly stops.

Vars goes still behind him — waiting. Suppose he knows enough to trust Grogu’s instincts — guided as they are. 

The floor, staring from the flight of stairs, seems deserted. A single long hallway disappears into turns going left and right — rooms with their doors shut lining the walls. There’s a muffled churning, like the work of many gears, and a quiet rattling of chains. 

That last sound makes a shiver run its course down Grogu’s spine, before he shoves that memory aside.

There, underneath everything else like an undercurrent singing quietly, are Tunes. More than one, and familiar.

“They’re here.” Grogu steps off the stairs and begins heading through the hall. His ears prick; he strains his hearing to follow those melodies. 

“How do you know?” Vars steps up, keeping to his side instead of following behind him. He resheathes one of his knives and pulls out his blaster, instead — it clicks as it’s primed. “The- The Force?”

Grogu hums, too preoccupied to give a proper answer. They reach the far end of the hall — Grogu hesitates, turning his head this way and that.

He makes right. Vars follows without question.

“How many?”

“What?” 

“Foundlings.” Grogu quickens his pace. The rooms here are more sparse. They reach a door, built into bars that block their path — bars like that of a prison cell. Grogu rests a hand on the keyhole. “How many did they take?”

Vars is silent, for a while. “Five. Six, with Plynne.”

Grogu listens to the Songs. He picks up four — and another singing so quietly, he could barely catch it. Louder, as if to mask the melodies of the other five, is a Song he’s much more familiar with.

Four, five, six. They’re there. Grogu breathes out a sigh of relief; it’ll go much smoother with all of them in one place.

Vars paces, slightly, in place. His visor is trained on the keyhole. “Can you get it open? With the- the Force? Like, manipulate its gears?”

“Sure.” Grogu sticks the tip of his spear into the keyhole, and shoves. Something snaps and breaks, and the door swings open. “Waste of time, though. C’mon.”

Vars snorts. It’s a humourless sound. 

They’re at a second gate when shouts ring. Alarms blare — Grogu winces, cringing away with a scowl.

Vars is staring up. His Song is singing in tunes of panic and worry, but his voice is oddly calm. “That took them a while.”

Grogu busts the door open. He steps across. “They didn’t raise the alarm before?”

“When’s ‘before’?”

“When we were fighting them, duh. Aboveground.”

Vars’ head jerks oddly, at that. “...You didn’t give them the chance.”

“Didn’t I?” Hm. He cares less for his apparent lapse in memory, and more for the stiffness in Vars’ voice. If Grogu didn’t know any better, he’d have almost said that Vars sounded…wary. 

Then again, why wouldn’t they be? They were underground in the midst of enemy territory. Anybody with sense would be wary. Grogu is just paranoid. Yeah, surely.

With the alarm blaring, they come across a bunch more troopers. Grogu hisses as a blaster shot catches him on the arm, between the plates. “ Haar’chak!”

“Jai’galaar?” Vars doesn’t look away from where he’s landing steady shots from around the hallway corner. Judging from the thudding sound Grogu keeps hearing, Vars’ aim is true. “Say something.”

“Alive. ‘S a scratch.” Grogu shifts his arm, biting his lip against the pain. At least it’s not his leg. At least he can still run.

“Can’t you heal yourself?”

“Mh- With what medkit?”

“No, I mean-” Vars straightens; the last trooper apparently fallen. It's suddenly a lot quieter. “The Force. You healed my buir with it, remember?”  

Grogu does remember. He presses a hand against the wound on his arm, hard. “‘S not how it works.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Yes.” Grogu steps into the now-deserted hallway. He sidesteps the body of a dead trooper. “Can’t heal myself with it.”

“That’s stupid. Why not?”

His arm throbs. Grogu stifles a hiss. “The Force…flows, yeah? And each person is like…a pool. A wound is like, blood in their pool. It hurts. It’s bad.”

They reach a third gate. Vars takes his spear and sticks it into the keyhole. The door swings open. “Okay, makes sense so far.”

“Good.” Grogu takes his spear back. It hangs limply in the hand of his wounded arm. He makes sure neither end is scraping on the floor as they walk. “When I heal somebody, I funnel some water between us. They get clean water from my pool, and the blood from their pool comes into mine.”

“Why don’t you just throw it out?”

“I do. It’s gotta be in my own pool first, though. I can’t throw away anything from someone else’s pool.” They reach a split in the road. The Songs are louder, here. Grogu makes for the left path. “When it gets to my pool, the blood’s…diluted. Makes it easier to throw out.”

Vars is quiet, for a while. Probably taking it all in; his Song is singing in soft notes of thoughtfulness, amidst the adrenaline of being here, and the shadow of the bodies left behind in their wake. 

“So, when your pool’s the one that’s got blood in it-”

“Can’t funnel it anywhere.” Vars had caught on very quickly. Grogu remembers barraging poor Master Skywalker with his own questions, a lifetime ago. Maybe he just didn’t want to accept how it works. He still doesn’t; not really. “Has to heal the- urh, old fashioned way.”

“Hm,” Vars hums. “Have you tried?”

Grogu winces. “Yep.”

“Ended badly?”

“Very bad.” Suppose he’d deserved it. He briefly pulls his hand away from his arm to gesture. “When I try, it’s like- It ricochets around, like a blaster bolt in a blaster-proof room. Makes everything…worse.”

A lot worse. Oh, not physically, probably — hopefully. He doesn’t think anything had gotten worse physically. But gods, it’d been an agony. Enough to stave him off ever trying again.

Vars is quiet, for a bit, again. “What if you gave it to someone else? Moved the blood to a different pool?”

Grogu slows down, in his surprise. “Like- Gave my wound to someone else?”

“Yeah. Then, you can take it back, and get rid of it.”

Grogu gnaws on his bottom lip, quietly thinking. Then, he shakes his head. “Who’d be willing to be my pool?”

“I would.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It hurts, Vars.”

“And I’d help.”

Grogu reaches to the side and snags the fabric of Vars’ borrowed cloak — his cloak, actually, and it’s evident with how it’s much too short — tugging them both to a stop. He tears off a strip, then tucks his arm under his chin to try and wrap the strip around his wound. 

“I can’t do that to you,” Grogu says, miraculously keeping his voice steady. Please don’t ask me to, he doesn’t say.

Vars watches him silently, for a while; visor giving nothing away. Then, he reaches down to take the strip out of Grogu’s hand. He works quietly, firmly and yet gently wrapping the fabric around the wound.

“Okay,” Vars says. “Better?”

Grogu shifts his arm. The ache is duller. He nods, then keeps walking.

The alarms had stopped blaring by the time they reach it. It allows Grogu to hear the quiet huffs of breath — five. He stops, and stains his ears; catching the last dredges of one, final, wheezier one.

Vars walks past him; urgency in his footsteps. He peers into one cell, then the other, and then-

He stiffens. “Plynne!”

“Vars?” There’s the sound of shifting. A quiet clang, as if someone….as if Plynne had grabbed hold of the bars of their cell. “Vars?! What’re you doing here-”

“Busting you out!” Vars gestures enthusiastically at him to come over. Grogu does, moving slowly.

“Finally!” Plynne sounds relieved; they breathe a little laugh at the end of the word. “Didn’t expect it to be you, though. Why’d the Daimyo ask you to come? I thought you’d be-”

Abruptly, as soon as she lays eyes on him, Plynne stops talking. Her eyes, burdened by dark and heavy bags, go wide — making her look impossibly more gaunt and ghostly.

“... Jai’galaar?”

Grogu holds their gaze for about a second, before it gets too much, and his eyes skitter away. They land on the Foundlings that are in the cell; five pairs of eyes staring straight at him, all of them wide. 

Grogu stares back, for a moment — pinned underneath their gazes. He wonders how much they know about what’s transpired in the past few months. He wonders if he’s still Jai’galaar Be Te Daimyo — if he’s still the Daimyo’s Shriekhawk — or just-

A traitor. Aruetii.

Then he firmly makes himself stop wondering, and lifts up his spear. “Stand back.”

He shoves the beskar-alloy tip into the keyhole, shoving until it gives. In the meantime, Plynne paces in the cell. “It’s you? It’s really you? You came back?”

With a loud snap, the gears give, and the door swings inward. Grogu pulls his spear back, jerking his head in a gesture. “C’mon. Run first, talk later.”

Plynne’s eyebrows furrow, as if they want to argue. But one Foundling, one Grogu doesn’t recognise, grabs onto the leg of their pants — whispering something quietly. Plynne’s eyes soften.

Vars shifts, moving to peer into the cell. His visor moves to each Foundling, before going to the one at the back — Grogu’s gaze follows.

“Zeak?” Vars steps into the cell, kneeling down. He rests the back of his gloved hand against the Foundling — Zeak’s — forehead; probably futile, but the gesture is clear. “Oh, buddy. C’mere-”

It’s Zeak, Grogu realises, who’s breathing had been so quiet — Song had been so frail. As Vars picks the ad’ika up, Grogu catches a glimpse of just how dull Zeak’s eyes are; how lifeless their expression is. 

Grogu shoots Plynne a look she reads easily through his visor — watches the way a grimness settles in the lines around her eyes.

“Two weeks in, he got sick,” Plynne answers his unspoken question. They bend down to pick up the Foundling that’d been clinging to their pants; the ad’ika wraps their legs around her immediately, apparently long used to the motion. “Something in the fumes down there.”

“We’ve been trying-” Another Foundling speaks up, in a small and hoarse voice. Grogu actually recognises this one; Lon’ika, faithful shadow of their older sibling. They stare at him, slowly rising to their feet. “To help. Gave him all the water, all the food. Didn’t work.”

Grogu’s jaw tightens to an almost painful degree. His eyes skitter back to Zeak, cradled in Vars’ arms.

If he had been any later-

“Come on.” Grogu turns away. No time to dwell. If the troopers had a single braincell amongst them, they’d know who they were here for. Now, speed was of the essence. “Let’s go.”

Lon’ika coaxes the other two Foundlings to their feet. With Zeak and the other one in Plynne’s arms, that makes five, and Grogu leads the way away from the cells — following the path they came through. 

The first mass of bodies they come across, he hears a Foundling gasp. The second, Plynne makes a soft sound and begins whispering to the Foundling in their arms. The third, there’s not a sound at all, and Grogu resists the urge to turn back around and look at them.

They move at a brisk pace — as quickly as Plynne can manage, weakened by captivity and still carrying an ad (child) in her arms. Grogu would’ve offered to carry them in her stead, but- 

Well, he doesn’t think he’s tall enough. If the ad were smaller, maybe.

…They chose big ones. Foundlings large enough to work, but small enough to be pushed around. It’s…smart.

A foul taste makes its way to his tongue; something rotten, something cruel. If the bodies of the troopers weren’t already dead, he’d think he’d enjoy getting his hands a bit dirtier. He thinks he already does.

“ Osik- (Shit-)” Grogu stops walking, just before he turns the corner. There are voices; footsteps. There are…many; quite a handful, especially with him as the only one with their hands free. “Wait.”

Wordlessly, they press themselves against the wall. As Grogu tenses, ready to spring out before the troopers arrive — before they could put the Foundlings at risk — Plynne is murmuring something to the ad in her arms.

Then, through his peripheral, he sees the way they put them down.

“Vars,” Plynne whisper-shouts. “Your blaster.”

As Vars struggles to one-handedly pass them his blaster, Grogu shoots them a look. “You sure you’re up for this?”

Plynne’s mouth twists up in a grim smile. She checks the blaster; primes it with a click and a whine, practiced confidence beneath the motions. “Been thinking about nothing else. On your mark.”

Grogu snorts. He counts the seconds; listening to the footsteps.

“Now.”

They turn the corner. Grogu throws his spear — that takes out one trooper. Many more are flooding in, tensing up; Plynne takes down three in the seconds of the enemy’s shock. As the troopers are recovering — with the sound of many more blasters clicking, whining — Grogu shoots out a hand; the three at the front get flung backwards into their brethren.

It buys them time, and only that. They’re already recovering. “Vars!” Grogu shouts back. “Cover the Foundlings!”

Grogu snags an explosive charge from his belt. It takes only a single button press to prime it. In one motion, he throws it, yanks Plynne to their knees, and activates his shield.

The blast sends him staggering back a step, bumping into Plynne behind him. The shield had taken the brunt of the blow, and now it flickers weakly, before shutting down completely. Haar’chak, well-

Before them lay a mess of white plastoid armour, lifeless, and the crumbling grey of ceiling debris. There’s a quiet rumbling sound; a crackling of broken stone. There are exactly eight Songs still singing.

Plynne’s hand is on his shoulder. She uses it as leverage to stand. “Woah. Hope you’ve got more of those.”

“We’ve got exactly four more.”

“It’ll have to do.” Plynne stumbles back towards the Foundlings. It takes a second of quiet coaxing before they’re clambering into her arms or sticking to her side; keeping in step. 

Vars rounds the corner last, Zeak held tightly in his grasp. “Lucky there isn't any rhydonium on this level,” he says, walking past.

Grogu steps up to keep pace, quietly stiffening. He hadn’t…thought about that.

“...you didn’t think about that, did you?”

“I did.”

“Did not, liar.”

“We’re still alive, aren’t we? All’s well that end’s well.” Grogu picks up his pace, walking faster, leaving Vars behind to mutter and grumble.

They finally reach the stairs, and he takes the steps three at a time — if they bump into any troopers, it’d be easier to take them down alone here. No need for them to even reach the Foundlings.

He gets to test out his idea when five troopers race down the steps towards him. Three of them end up falling over the railing, so he counts his idea as a success.

One of them grabs him by the shoulders, throwing him up against a wall. His helmet clangs loudly against the stone; Grogu grunts, for a moment, dazed. The trooper throws their arm back, ready to deliver a heavy blow to his visor-

A knife ends up sticking out of their side. Blaster fire takes them down the rest of the way. 

Grogu recalls his spear, and it comes spinning into his hand. Using the falling trooper as leverage, he leaps up and slams the beskar-alloy against the side of their helmet — there’s a sickening crack, and all it took was a small nudge for them to topple over the railing as well.

“If I didn’t know any better,” Plynne huffs as she makes past him; shifting her grip on the ad. “I’d say you were trying to leave again.”

That’s bitterness, in their voice. A tone that has no place being here, now. Grogu’s head jerks sharply in their direction — equally, if not more, sharp words ready on his tongue.

“Don’t,” Vars whispers harshly, bringing up the rear of the tide of Foundlings. He stops briefly to retrieve his knife, bending down awkwardly with Zeak in his arms. “C’mon, Jai’galaar. Don’t do this here.”

Grogu huffs. It’s not like he was the one who brought it up! He’s tempted to say as much-

But Vars had kept walking, past him, and he’s getting left behind. With another huff, he shifts his grip on his spear and rushes to catch up.

Climbing up the rest of the steps is thankfully uneventful. Grogu manages to slip past Vars, the Foundlings, and Plynne to get back in the lead. Usually, he’d be fine with letting Plynne take up the head of their charge; had their arms not been filled with such precious cargo.

The rainforest is dark. He hears a Foundling whimper, when they step out of the mines. 

Quickly, he switches the flashlight on his helmet on. A beam of light illuminates the ground before them, and another when Vars does the same.

Plynne takes in a sharp and audible breath of air.

“What happened?”

Grogu doesn’t turn around to look, as he says, “What had to be done.”

He steps over the body of a trooper, gesturing for them to follow. Rather slowly, they pick their way through the corpses, and Grogu gets a good look at it, finally.

…huh. He’s thinking, now, that Vars had probably been wary of…him. Given the state of things. He wishes he could blame Vars for being wary — he can’t.

And to think he’d been squeamish about taking a life before. How pathetic.

They’re about to step into the trees when there’s a shout. Then, the whine of blasters.

“Go!” Grogu shoves Plynne’s legs, urging them to run. “Vars, lead them back!”

“What about you-?”

“I’ll buy us time. Go! I’ll catch up!”

Vars hesitates for only a second longer. Then, a volley of blaster fire hits the trees around them, and the Goran’ika doesn’t have a choice. He spins around and sprints through the gap between trees; Plynne and the Foundlings following the beam of light from his helmet.

Grogu turns back towards the troopers. He lunges, rolling underneath the barrage of shots, knocking his spear harshly against the knees of one trooper. Embedding his spear through their chest, he then uses their body as a shield — taking his blaster in with his other hand, and firing a couple of his own shots.

It’s pitiful, compared to the enemy’s. More troopers are filing out from the mines, raising their rifles and their blasters. Grogu flinches away from a shot too close for comfort, hissing softly.

He throws his blaster to the ground. His snarl sends reverberating echoes through the Force.

Grogu shoots a hand out, past the troopers — his target, instead, is the truck.

With a groan, it heeds his will; leaves trails in the mud as he drags it closer, towards the middle of the mass of troopers. He knocks down a couple on his way, but there are still too many alive.

He can hear, from the truck, the way the Force rumbles a warning; a low thrum of something dangerous, something wicked, something earthy . He thinks it could be rhydonium — he hopes it’s rhydonium.

He decides to find out.

Grogu takes another explosive charge from his belt and throws it against the truck. 

One second. Grogu makes to sprint into the trees, but their fire keeps him pinned.

Two seconds. Grogu tries to relight his shield. It sputters weakly, forming a dim circle.

Three seconds-

…there’s a ringing in his ears. A soreness blooming across his back. He feels dazed; instinct requires him to get off his back, and Grogu leans heavily against a tree to pull himself up. Putting weight on his left foot makes him wince; a sharp sort of pain blaring through his veins.

Hissing, Grogu gingerly pats his leg. His fingers graze against something sharp, sticking out of his own flesh — shrapnel, most likely. His first instinct is to pull it out, rid himself of the agony-

Don’t, says his training, and Grogu listens — leaving the shrapnel where it is. He’ll treat himself back at the ship.

He’s much, much further into the rainforest than he was a second ago. There a trooper bodies scattered around him; smoke wafting from their back. A flame roars in the distance, licking heat and coughing smoke into the air.

Grogu quickly turns away from the sight. Every step makes him wince, groan and hiss. He holds out his hand — ever so faithful, his spear returns, smacking into his open palm.

Without looking back, using the spear as a crutch, Grogu makes his way to the Crest II.

“There he is!” Lon’ika’s call rings through the jungle. “Jai’galaar! You’re alive!”

Ah, well. Supposes that answers that question, then, Daimyo’s Shriek-hawk.

As he staggers into the clearing, Plynne and Vars quickly approach him. Squinting through the light of Vars’ flashlight, Grogu gives them weary looks — especially at the Foundlings still in their arms.

“Why didn’t you go in?” He nods at the Crest II, making his way towards it. Never had he seen it as a sight so relieving, before.

Plynne falls into step with him; shifting the ad in her grip. He wonders how their arms aren’t sore.

“Couldn’t,” she replies, her voice low but steady. “It was locked.”

Grogu nearly freezes in place; nearly smacks himself upside the head for being so stupid. He staggers faster. 

“What’s with your leg?” Vars asks, voice dripping in concern.

“Shrapnel.”

“Shrap- Tell me it’s not still in there?!”

“Where else-” Grogu stops, to take in a breath; resting a hand against the hull of the Crest II. “Where else would it be?”

He can’t be bothered to pay Vars’ hiss of frustration any mind. He leaves behind smudges of red on his vambrace, but the ramp of the Crest II obligingly lowers…

…a third of the way. Then, it stops — stuck. Grogu groans.

Vars and Plynne help the Foundlings to clamber up atop the ramp, urging them to head into the ship. Meanwhile, Grogu coaxes himself through the painful ordeal of clambering up — he thinks he’s drawn blood, with how harshly he’d bit his bottom lip in an attempt at stifling the cries of pain.

There’s a firm grasp on the back of his cuirass. Grogu yelps aloud as he’s lifted up, then set gently on his feet.

“You should treat that,” says Plynne, pulling their hand away. "Before it gets worse."

The Foundling they’d been carrying up to this point pads curiously around the ship; apparently, finally at ease. It’s a sight that makes a small blanket of warmth settle around his heart.

Grogu shifts his weight off his injured leg. “Later,” he says, and tries not to be gruff. He hopes he was…successful, enough. “We need to get off this planet, first. We’re only safe in hyperspace.”

Plynne purses her lips tightly together, but doesn’t argue. Suppose she knows there’ll be time for that later.

Suppose she knows that, trapped in the ship, there will be nowhere for him to run.

Plynne heads into the cargo hold of the Crest II, kneeling down next to the Foundlings. Vars emerges out of the bunks and heads towards her, muttering something lowly — something Grogu can only catch phrases of, like ‘Zeak’ and ‘rest’.

With the ramp closing behind him, he makes straight for the ladder — the cockpit his destination. With a hand holding onto the bottom rungs, he hesitates.

“The medkit,” he says, and both Plynne and Vars’ heads whip towards him, “should be under the bunk.”

He doesn’t need to tell them to use it. Foundlings are the future — they are the priority. Vars immediately turns back around, disappearing into the bunk room. Plynne nods, something quiet settling in her eyes. 

Grogu wonders where her armour is. She didn’t bring up the idea of going back to get it. After the mess they’ve left behind…going back is probably impossible.

He turns away. That’s not something they’ll talk to him about, at all — especially not when Vars is there to fill in the shoes. Without another word, without another glance, Grogu clambers up the ladder — biting back yelps of pain.

He can hear Plynne murmuring soft reassurances to the Foundlings. He can hear nothing calling him back.

Alone, he enters the cockpit, and its doors close shut behind him.

Chapter Text

You shouldn’t keep a piece of shrapnel sticking out of your leg.

That’s, like- Yes? Obviously?

You shouldn’t leave a piece of shrapnel sticking out of your leg. It doesn’t take Mandalorian training to know that. You just shouldn’t. The first chance you get at treating it, you do. It’d be stupid not to.

Suppose it’s…continuity, then. Grogu Djarin is a fool.

He’s…sitting, if that makes it better. In the pilot’s seat, in the cockpit — watching the streaking stars of hyperspace fly by. All that expanse of space, he realises, gone in a flash. 

It’d been nearly a standard hour since they got into hyperspace. They’re safe. Logically, he knows this.

He wonders if the Foundlings are alright. He’s sure Vars and Plynne would’ve taken care of them — Foundlings are the future, and they are so… small. Zeak’ika, the sick one, is about Grogu’s height, and less broad. 

Maybe it’d been the sickness. He hopes so. Being smaller than Grogu isn’t something to boast about. 

He wraps his arm around his own midsection — an unconscious gesture, an attempt at self-soothe. It makes dull blossoms of pain arise, from the bruises he no doubt has. That, along with the graze along his arm, are all the souvenirs he’d gotten from their little excursion.

Well. And the shrapnel. Can’t forget the shrapnel.

He wonders what it is — eyes it, through a narrowed gaze. Probably something from the truck as it got blown to pieces. It looks metal — shines like it, too.

He’s lucky it’s only one big piece, really. It could’ve been a million tiny pieces digging into his skin, right now. Who’s to say it isn’t?

…he should get treated. He should. They were probably done with the medkit. He’s glad he just got that restocked, before seeing Vars. In his head, he’d been worried they’d be used on himself and only himself, nursing his wounds and his…his pride, should it have been a trap.

He wants to say he knows better, now. That he knows Vars wouldn’t do that. That he can trust-

Grogu cuts off that thought with a growl and a scowl. 

He can’t trust anybody. He couldn’t trust the Mand’alor, who’d spared his father’s murderer — he couldn’t trust the Daimyo, not when his wrists still throb with long-healed scars — he most certainly cannot trust-

The doors to the cockpit slide open. Grogu goes still.

For a moment, he thinks it’s Vars — hopes it’s Vars, really. But the melody that sings, now, is a tad too wary; too weary. The Song he hears, now, does not sound like Vars, but rather-

He feels his own eyes slide shut. “Plynne. Do you need something?”

A small note of surprise entwines itself into the melody of Plynne’s Song. Other than that, however, she does a fine job at hiding it. “Most of the Foundlings are asleep,” they say; footsteps thudding quietly against the floor as they step inwards. “They’re well.”

Grogu breathes out a quiet sigh of relief. “Good,” he murmurs, opening his eyes. He can only just about spy Plynne in his peripheral. For a moment, he hesitates — then, he turns.

“What about you?” Grogu asks, softly. “Are you okay?”

Plynne blinks, a couple of times — a bit less successful at hiding the surprise this time. It makes a bit of hurt gnaw at his chest; that they’d be so surprised at him wanting them to be well.

Then he remembers the last time they ever interacted, and…

…he can’t really blame them anymore.

Plynne’s eyes skitter away. Instead of answering, she sets down what Grogu recognises to be his medkit on the ground, by the pilot’s seat. “You should treat that leg of yours.”

Grogu frowns. “And you should be resting.”

“It’s that a suggestion?” Plynne doesn’t look up, at him — perhaps it's a mercy. He doesn’t think he can stand seeing the bitterness in her voice come to life in her eyes. “Or an order?”

Grogu stiffens. He looks away, drawing his uninjured arm close to his chest. “I-” he says, and not much else; the words abandoning him, deserting him, leaving him to drown alone.

He sees the way Plynne straightens; the way they stand like a warrior, a soldier, a fighter and he, their enemy. It makes him tense despite himself; instinct, or maybe something else.

“Why are you here, Jai’galaar?” They don’t beat around the bush, or spare him any small mercies of seconds to recompose himself. Their eyes narrow — the notes, singing, now of distrust. “What do you want?”

Grogu only just keeps himself from flinching. He breathes out — long and slow and steady. 

“Vars called me,” says he, in a tone so carefully constructed to be flat; emotionless. It might make Plynne think he doesn’t care for them — it might be better, that way. “He asked for my help. It’s he, you should thank.”

“Who said anything about ‘thank’?” Plynne drawls, but softer, now that the subject had shifted to Vars. They swallow stiffly — Grogu watches the way they curl their fingers into fists. “Do you- Do you have any idea of how he was like, when you left? How we all were? Did you even care?”

The silence is long and daunting; heavy, and impossible. It makes the quiet break in Plynne’s voice ever so stark.

Grogu bends down enough to pick up the medkit. Then, he spins his seat back around — faces the transparisteel window and the vast expanse of space. “Thanks for the medkit.”

Plynne actually growls, at him, then — Grogu envisions teeth bared and fangs glinting in the light of stars. “I should’ve known,” she scoffs, and it sounds like the wail of a wounded animal. “I should’ve known-”

“Known what?” Grogu snaps. He can’t bring himself to turn around and face her, and he knows that is a mercy. “What exactly do you think you know, Plynne? About anything that has happened-”

“I know you were my friend!” Plynne shifts heavily; feet stomping against the ground. “I knew I trusted you.”

(The past tense does not escape his notice.)

Grogu’s grip on the medkit tightens, to an almost deathly degree. “Get out,” he seethes, low and furious. “Get out, Plynne. Now.”

“Why don’t you just make me? We both know you can do that, apparently.” 

“I don’t want to do that-!”

“Oh is that it?!” Plynne’s voice raises; shrill and hoarse at the edges. Her Song spikes, snarling, just as frayed. “The only thing that’s stopping you is that you don’t want to.”

Anger is a swarm of insects making its hive at the back of his throat. Grogu swallows, and feels the way their stingers prick against his lungs — his heart. 

“So what if it is,” he breathes, and it’s exactly like a hiss. “Does that scare you, Plynne?”

Plynne takes in a sharp breath, but before they could speak, Grogu whips his seat back around. With his shoulders level with his ears, teeth bared behind the visor, he snarls;

“Are you afraid of me…?”

A thousand different expressions seemed to be battling in her eyes, just then — a thousand different notes, a thousand different melodies. Like a stench, her Song fills the space of the cockpit, and Grogu can tell-

“Hm. You are,” he says; answers for her, and rathers she just shoot him. His tone has fallen back to lifelessness, only this time, impossibly more dead. “You are afraid.”

Plynne shifts backwards, a step. It’s a tiny motion. It doesn’t escape his notice.

Slowly, Grogu tilts his head — takes them in with critical eyes. It’s less that of a friend searching for wounds; more of a predator taking in prey. If it was odd to look at them that way, he doesn’t feel it. 

“...You’re stuck on a strange ship, speeding through hyperspace,” he begins — eyes narrowing, “you’ve got five Foundlings to worry about. You’re tired, and weak.”

“To top it all off, you’ve got…me, steering.” Grogu leans back in the pilot’s seat. It’s almost casual, the motion — yet that ‘almost’ makes the loudest of differences. “Who’s to say I won’t betray you again? Who’s to say I even care? Vars is biased. His judgement isn’t sound, not when it comes to me. You’ve got no real allies, no real way of defending yourself or your charges.”

“...Did I get everything, or is there more?” He gestures, vaguely in the air with a flick of the wrist — he doesn’t miss the way Plynne’s eyes track the motion, as if his hand were a blaster instead. 

Plynne takes another step back; those thousand different expressions settling into a steely kind of horror — an urge to fight but, just as readily, an urge to flee. 

No, he corrects himself. An urge to survive.

“Aruetii,” Plynne breathes out — through bared teeth and fangs, and a Song screaming to survive and a voice dripping in venom. “Aruetyc jetii’ad. You’re a disgrace to your armour, your title. You’re not one of us. Traitor.”

Well. 

Just because it’s true doesn’t mean they had to say it like that.

“Hm. Well, like it or not,” Grogu sneers, “this…aruetyc jetii’ad (traitorous Jedi-spawn) just saved your life, and is taking you back to Tatooine. So I suggest you get out of my cockpit, Plynne.”

Another rhythm of surprise, although this time hampered heavily by disbelief. “Why would you do that? What do you gain out of getting us back home?”

Grogu scoffs. He spins his seat back around. “An empty ship. Silence. Peace. Take your pick.”

With a light pop, he pries the lid of the medkit open. He remembers, rather suddenly and…randomly, given the circumstances, how Mayfeld had reacted to his old medkit. Something wrong about it being nothing more than a cardboard box.

Well, the cardboard box had worked fine, Migs Mayfeld. But he has to admit, it’s useful having the items actually properly sorted in their little spaces, rather than just jumbled together.

“I don’t trust you,” Plynne announces, as if Grogu hadn’t known, and wasn’t trying to think about anything else.

“You don’t need to,” Grogu replies. He picks out the bacta patches and holds them in his hand. “You don’t have a choice.”

It’s here, holding the bacta patches, does he now falter. 

His brain had already subconsciously taken inventory — he knows that they’d taken more than half of his supply. He thinks about what that means; he thinks about wounds that would require bacta, injuries on little Foundlings who don’t deserve it, he thinks about-

He thinks about Zeak, who is resting in his bunk, ill. He thinks about how frail they are — he thinks about how late he was, all because-

Because he hadn’t trusted it to not be a trap.

Grogu’s eyebrows furrow. He sighs, bringing the bacta patches to his chest — over his heart, oh foolish thing.

“...for what it’s worth,” he says, quietly. Without looking back, he can’t tell if Plynne is even listening. But he knows they’re still in the cockpit, so that will have to do for…something. Anything.

“For what it’s worth,” he reiterates, “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to fight you. And despite my…better judgement, I am taking you back to Tatooine.”

For what it’s worth, Grogu does not say, and the words come as a screech in his head. For what it’s worth. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.

He doesn’t say that. He wishes he could bring himself to. He wishes he weren’t such a coward.

Plynne’s Song picks back up, again. It’s like a sandstorm — the notes as the grains of sand, whirling and howling. He can hear the sounds of her feet scuffing against the ground; listens to the way she steps back, slowly but surely, until the doors slide open to let her leave.

But before they do, quietly like they almost don’t want him to hear, Plynne mutters, “Isn’t really worth all that much, coming from a traitor and a liar.”

Grogu wonders if the softer edge to her tone was real, or if he was looking for forgiveness that wasn’t there. 

He waits until Plynne’s footsteps had led her down the ladder; waits until the doors had slid shut again; waits until he is alone.

“...Maybe not.”

He’s not going to get into the specifics of pulling the shrapnel out of his leg-

…What? Did you want to be there for that? Do you, what, thrive on his agony, or something? You think it’s entertaining? You want more?

Sheesh. Fine, then. It went vaguely like this;

The shrapnel had been digging out of his leg. You know this, obviously. He knows it too — a bit hard not to have noticed.

The shrapnel itself is a jagged, angry thing. Gleaming cruelly against the streaking light of stars. Every shift, every motion, he feels makes it dig further into his flesh. He doesn’t like to think about the damage it’s doing. 

Grogu’s learnt to treat his own wounds before — he’s had to, really; hadn’t had the choice not to. He can say, with utmost certainty, that this is easily the worst one so far.

‘So far,’ he says, tempting fate like a damn fool.

It’s…fear, making his hands shake. Fear, making taking off his leg guards an impossible task. Apprehension, wariness — he could use a whole bunch of different words for it but-

But the most accurate, that would be fear. He thinks it surely must seep into the air. He thinks it mustn’t be all that different from how Plynne’s had smelled like. He thinks himself a hypocrite for it, too.

The fear mounts with every second he delays. While he takes off his vambrace, his pauldrons, and treats the graze on his arm. While he looks himself over and tries desperately to spot any other wound he could turn his focus to. While he finally, resignedly, shifts his focus to his leg.

He needs that leg. It should be obvious, but he needs it. By not being able to run, by not being able to jump or to climb, it’ll cripple him. 

And by crippling him, it may just as well have killed him.

Grogu wishes he could say that he was smart about it. He wishes he could say he knew what he was doing. 

He didn’t — but, really, it should come of no surprise at this point.

Before the fear could pin him down, before it could render him immobile and useless, Grogu grabs onto the bit of shrapnel sticking out of his leg. Holding his breath, he yanks it out.

He’d honestly expected it to hurt more. That’s not to say it wasn’t an agony already.

Grogu stifles a scream at the back of his throat, and was only slightly successful; the noise he makes, then, is that of a shrill whimper. The shrapnel falls out of his shaky hand and clatters to the ground. He thinks he wants to vomit. 

He doesn’t…think he does? He hopes he didn’t. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, and he tastes salt instead of bile.

Blinking away the blurriness of his eyes, he looks down at the medkit. He looks down at his leg, and, for a moment, dazedly watches the steady flow of blood trickling out — it stains his kute with a warning red he can barely see, drips onto the ground in tiny splotches.

He remembers, suddenly like it were a gunshot, why he hadn’t pulled the bit of shrapnel out in the woods. It had something to do with blood loss. And he is losing blood, so he should probably do something about that.

It’s that tiny realisation that makes him move — that nudge in his head that urges his fingers, trembling as they are, to roll the fabric of his kute up and away from the wound. It looks even worse now that he could actually see it.

Grogu covers up the sight by slapping a bacta patch over it. He thinks he’s even less successful at stifling his scream then. Every wince, every yelp seeps through his steadily crumbling resolve, that by the time he’s wrapping bandages around his leg his whine falls unobstructed from his tongue.

‘Ouch ’ doesn’t begin to cover it.

Ouch anyway.

With fingers still shaky from the whole ordeal, Grogu puts everything back into its place and slams the lid of the medkit closed — a finality in the motion that brings him no small amounts of relief. He breathes out, sharply, and listens to the snarl of static that comes out as.

Leaning heavily into the seat, Grogu blinks, and blinks, and eyes the streaking stars. He uses those unsteady hands of his, sticking them underneath the lip of his helmet to wipe away the tears. There’s an odd sense of detachment — like he isn’t really there, or isn’t really in control, or doesn’t really…care. 

He’s exhausted. He’s exhausted. He’s exhausted and saying just that feels like an injustice to sheer magnitude of what he’s actually feeling.

After, when his shaky breaths had steadied and his twitching fingers fall into stillness, his gaze is drawn to the blinking lights of his console. His eyebrows slowly furrow.

It’s another few hours to Tatooine.

And he is starving.

There’s probably food downstairs. He says ‘probably’, because he’s not sure if his stores had been absolutely ransacked by a horde of five hungry Foundlings and two hungry Mandalorians. Not that he’d blame them if that happened, but still.

…actually, do they know where the food is? Surely they do. Or, at least, surely they’ll be able to figure it out. Plynne and Vars aren’t stupid. They- they aren’t.

…Grogu shifts to his feet, wincing at the sharp spike of pain. 

Knowing them, or his luck, it wouldn’t hurt to check.

Before he continues, he takes a minute to roll the fabric of his kute back down. He spends a bare minimum of five standard minutes trying to convince himself that it’ll be fine if he puts the leg guards back on.

It takes only a second with it actually on his leg before he concedes, tearing it back off as if it burns and leaving it on the console.

Look, he tried, alright? But he'd just gotten one agony done and over with, he simply does not have the energy for another one. The spirit of Manda would like, understand, probably. Not that he cares, but on the safe side.

He snags the medkit with him as he moves, just narrowly remembering to stop it from knocking into his leg. He’s limping, but it’s…better — the bacta working to mend muscle and tissue. It’s not all that different from the Force, really, other than he thinks that Force heal hurts less.

Rather unfortunately for him, he's the only one on the ship who could use the Force. He's probably the only one…ever.

(there is a kind of…loneliness, that comes from remembering that you are the last of your kind. it’s one that makes the galaxy seem massive and you, as a result, so impossibly small. it’s a loneliness that is an old, old friend of his)

For a moment, before he gets close enough for the doors of the cockpit to open, Grogu stops.

He breathes in. Then, he breathes out.

For…strength. Yeah. For strength.

The doors slide open, and Grogu leaves the safe solitude of the cockpit.

There are voices. He hears them, as he approaches the ladder. He recognises Plynne’s voice, recognizes Vars’ unmodulated voice, recognises some of the Foundlings’. The Songs are quiet; not cheery, but unafraid. Calm.

It’s a good sign. It’s another point for strength. Grogu tucks the medkit under his arm, approaches the ladder, and begins to climb down.

“Ah,” says Vars, as soon as he catches sight of him. Plynne’s words abruptly cut themselves off — heedless of that, Vars only cheerfully continues, “There you are. Say, do you know where the food is?”

Grogu stops climbing, simply because resisting the urge to knock his helmet against the rungs of the ladder takes up all of his concentration.

Quicker, then, he continues down. “Did you not find it? It should be- It should be just there.”

He turns as soon as his feet land on solid metal ground. Plynne sits atop a crate, whilst the Foundlings gather around her in a loose circle. Even Zeak is there, staring at him with brighter eyes than before.

Vars is standing. He’s forgone his helmet, and Grogu catches a glimpse of gold somewhere in his peripheral. 

“In the kitchen-y area?” Vars gestures, vaguely. “We checked. There was nothing there but a couple of ration bars.”

Grogu stares at him, blinking. Oh. “Oh. That’s…it? I mean, that is it. That’s the food.”

"Wh- Yeah, we know it’s edible. Me ‘n Plynne had ours.” Vars props his hands on his hips, shrugging. “The Foundlings aren’t a fan of ‘em though. Don’t you have something else?”

Grogu, at least, finds enough decency within him to think about it for a second. “No.”

“N-no?”

“No.”

Vars blinks, slowly. “...not even a- It’s just ration bars?”

Grogu tilts his head. He thinks about it some more. “Yep. Just those.”

“That’s not…” Vars glances back at Plynne, almost as if asking for help. Plynne suddenly becomes very interested in the wall. “That’s…not healthy. I don’t- I don’t think.”

Grogu shifts his weight off of his injured leg. He cocks his head. “It’s edible.”

“For a bit , yeah. Noooot really helpful to a growing kid’s diet.”

“What? I ate ‘em all the time when I was little.” Back with Buir, that’d been almost entirely their diet. And look at him! He’s fine.

“Well that explains it,” Plynne mutters, just barely audible. Grogu gives her a scowl she can’t see.

“Jai’galaar,” Vars clasps his hands together in front of his chest. It’s almost like he’s praying. “Please tell me you have something other than ration bars.”

Grogu thinks about it some more.

“...actually-”

“Oh thank gods- ”

“How’s…fruit?” He thinks he has fruit. He probably has fruit? From the forest planet, with Mayfeld’s base on it. It feels like a couple months ago, now — it was probably less than two days.

"Fruit will be fine." The relief in Vars' voice is almost thick enough to touch. "Right guys?"

At the chorus of affirmations from the Foundlings, and a stony silence from Plynne, Grogu makes towards the kitchenette area. He stops only briefly to leave the medkit on the ground, pushed out of the way. 

He’ll put it under the bunk…later. First, though, the Foundlings were probably really hungry. He knows he is.

Vars is moving towards him. “Oh, do you need me to-”

Without thinking, Grogu springs up onto a platform built into the counters of the kitchenette. Immediately after, his knees give and he stumbles, hissing.

Sharply in his alarm, Vars says, “Jai-”

“I’m fine.”

“But you-”

“I’m fine,” Grogu bites out, through gritted teeth. He braces his palms flat against the surface of the counter — catching his breath, waiting for the spinning in his head to stop. He says, again, around the break in his voice, “I swear ‘m fine.”

He doesn’t have the choice not to be.

Vars doesn’t protest after that. He only steps closer, until Grogu can practically feel his presence against his back. The young goran doesn’t reach out to touch him; just stands there, silently.

When Grogu thinks he can move again, he does — clearing his throat. He pushes the sympathetic singing Songs to the side and opens the top cabinet. “Do you see it?”  

Vars has to step back, then hop onto the tip of his toes, but his eyes widen. “Oh! That’s all the way to the back. No wonder Plynne couldn’t see it.”

“I wasn’t really looking,” Plynne chimes in, as if to defend themselves. “Didn’t really wanna find anything.” 

“Huh? Why not?”

“Worried whatever we ate could be poison.” The utter deadened tone makes it difficult to tell if they were being serious. Surely not.

Grogu rolls his weight onto his toes, as if to hop up. Just then, a dull ache spasms through his leg — quickly and effectively squashing down any of that. He hisses, but obligingly leans away.

Ugh, new plan.

“Hang on- Be ready to catch.”

Vars shifts — a single note of alarm in his Song. “Be ready to-”

Without much warning, Grogu reaches into the Force and yanks. The packet of fruits go flying out of the cabinet, catching Vars square in the chest if the loud thump and grunt were any indication.

“Got it,” Vars wheezes.

“Good.” Grogu grabs a packet of rations from the box on the counter, taking it with him. His leg is throbbing, now, and it serves as an effective reminder to take it slow. This time, more cautious, he climbs down from the platform. 

“Pretty sure you can’t eat the skin,” he adds, when the afterthought comes to mind.

“‘Kay. Peel it, then.” Vars moves back towards the Foundlings, throwing the packet of fruits to Plynne. His stride stumbles as he’s patting his belt for a knife.

Plynne obligingly catches the fruits, but pulls a face and doesn’t make a move to take one out — not even Vars offers her one of his knives, or when poor Lon’ika tries to grab it from her lap. She squints down at them, eyebrows knitted — Song a steady mantra of those same, distrusting motifs.

…They can’t be serious.

“Er-” Vars tries. “Plynne-”

“No.” She looks up, but not at him — keeps her gaze trained on Grogu, watchful and wary. “We can eat at the palace.”

“But I’m-!”

“No, Lon. It’s not safe.”

Oh. They are serious.

“I didn’t-” Grogu says, haltingly in his utter disbelief. “I didn’t- Poison the- the fruits, Plynne.”

“Well how am I supposed to know?” Plynne shifts, as if she’s about to spring up to her feet. Their eyes narrow to slits. “And how am I supposed to just- Believe you? After what you did.”

The silence is heavy and awkward. Grogu narrows his eyes — unconsciously shifting his stance, as if he were about to spar. In response, Plynne’s Song snarls and bristles, although the warrior herself remains perfectly still.

The air turns prickly — as if a bolt of lightning were to crash down between them, as if a fire is about to spark, as if a storm is about to break. 

Vars is glancing between the two of them, biting harshly on his bottom lip. Fortunately or unfortunately, he seems to have the sense not to butt in, even though Grogu can hear the way his Song screams to do just that.

The Foundlings don’t have that same reservation. Zeak leans into Lon’ika’s side, murmuring something softly.

“But he’s Jai’galaar be te Daimyo!” Lon’ika blurts out. Zeak nods, apparently their support. “Daimyo’s shriek-hawk, right? The Daimyo trusts him!”

Grogu breathes in, sharply — shock driving his irritation to a standstill. He moves his head, staring at each Foundling in turn — watching as Lon’ika’s logic settles in their heads with no problem, and no argument.

He doesn’t need to see them, to see the way both Plynne and Vars had gone still.

What did they tell them? Grogu wonders, almost horrified had it not been for the twang of his heart. What did they tell the Foundlings?

…Apparently, the truth hadn’t been it.

He’s…tempted to roll with it. Make things worse for Plynne and Vars, sure. It’s not like he was the one who’d made the decision to lie to the Foundlings. And, anyway, don’t they deserve to know? Let them be wary — let them be as cautious as Plynne. It’ll do them good.

Maybe they should be afraid of him.

Five pairs of eyes train themselves onto him. Five pairs waiting patiently, innocently curious. Five pairs gleam in the light coming from his ship — this haunted ship of his, so unused to having so many people in it at once.

Five Songs singing at ease.

“...here,” Grogu says, and it’s only the vocoder of his helmet that hides the croak in his voice. He holds out a hand. “I’ll prove it to you. Give me a fruit. You can pick.”

Plynne’s eyes narrow impossibly further. They open their mouth to speak-

In a flash nearly too quick to be seen by the naked eye, Lon grabs a fruit from the packet in Plynne’s lap. Like a spring, they bounce away before the warrior could react, trotting towards him with their prize in hands.

“Lon-!”

“Vor’e, ad’ika (thanks, little one),” Grogu feels himself murmur, taking the fruit when it’s passed to him. He fumbles with his ration bar for a moment, before passing it to Lon — who takes it with a wrinkled expression — and unsheathes his vibroblade.

At the sound of his knife, Plynne launches to their feet. The fruits topple to the ground with a rumbling clatter. Their eyes are furious, but their Song is terrified. 

The sudden movement makes a flinch sweep through the Foundlings — that, Grogu feels, is what finally breaks Vars’ resolve.

“Wait,” he grabs onto Plynne’s arm, no less tugging her to a stop than outright yanking her backwards, “wait, Plynne. Damnit, you-”

“You can’t trust him, Vars, you can’t-”

“Calm down, calm down. Why’d he betray us now, huh? After coming here, to help you- to help me, help us-!”

“I don’t know!” Plynne’s voice breaks, at the edges. They yank their arm out of Vars’ grasp. “You’re not thinking straight-”

“I’m not thinking straight?!”

“-know he’s your brother but you’ve-!” Plynne gestures, aggressively at his direction, “You’ve seen what he’s done-!”

Abruptly, Plynne stops talking. Both her’s and Vars’ head slowly turn, until they’re both staring at him with wide eyes.

Grogu sticks another piece of fruit under the lip of his helmet and into his mouth. Obnoxiously, he chews — just as obnoxiously, he swallows.

“...’s a good fruit,” he offers, in the silence. He’s made quite the progress while they’d been arguing; a rather large chunk of the fruit is missing from where he’d been cutting out pieces. “‘S sweet.  

Poor Lon’ika is staring at him as well. Grogu can’t help but offer them the next piece. “Here,” he says. “Try.”

Without so much as a second’s hesitation, Lon plucks the piece of fruit out of his hand and sticks it into their own mouth. 

Her Song singing in sheer alarm, Plynne steps forward. “Lon-!”

“Oh!” Lon gasps through a mouthful; the sound and their words come muffled. Ever so slightly, their eyes widen. “Oh, jeez! It’s way better than the food they gave us at the mine!”

Well, great. That’s grand to know. He doesn’t think he’s ever had a compliment stoop so low.

A note of sorrow twangs at his Song. Miraculously, he manages to keep it and the rising tide of fury out of his voice. “Yeah? Jate, jate (good, good). Here.” 

Grogu trades the ration bar with what remains of the fruit over to the Foundling — Lon’ika takes it, blinks gratefully at him, then scampers away to join their friends. They brush past Plynne, who yet again stumbles into a surprised kind of stillness.

He spies Vars, sees the way something vaguely satisfactory, vaguely proud settles in his eyes and in his Song. As if Grogu had proved him right and yet, at the same time, managed to pleasantly surprise him. 

The young goran glances yet again between him and Plynne, before the Foundling’s clamour for help draws his attention away, and he goes at the rest of the fruits with his knife — peeling away its skin and distributing pieces.

“It’s a few hours more to Tatooine.” Grogu draws his gaze back, to Plynne. He blinks, idly flicking fruit juices off of his fingers. He’s only mildly successful, and can feel them seeping through his gloves and sticking to his claws. 

Ew.

Plynne is not much more than a statue, at this point. Her Song is too loud to decipher, and the look in her eyes is unreadable. Maybe that was for the best. Maybe he shouldn’t know what they’re thinking.

Maybe he doesn’t deserve it. Maybe he shouldn’t deserve it.

Grogu turns away. He feels he burns underneath that gaze. “I’ll let you know when we get there.”

She doesn’t call after him when he climbs up the ladder. Grogu doesn’t turn around to look. He doesn’t turn around at all.

Or, well, other than to lock the cockpit doors behind him. He’d rather not end up with a knife in his back.

It’s not Vars who comes knocking on the cockpit doors, a standard hour later.

Neither, surprisingly enough, is it Plynne.

“Mister Jai’galaar, sir?” Lon’s voice wafts through the doors. “Are you in there?”

For a moment, such in his surprise, Grogu spins the pilot’s seat around and just stares. He blinks, and blinks, and blinks some more. Watching; waiting.

Lon’ika knocks again. There are soft murmurs he can’t hear enough of to understand — just to gleam that they’re, apparently, not alone in their venture.

Grogu slides off his seat, stifling a wince at the dull throb of pain from his leg. He takes a minute to slide his helmet back over his head, before opening the door.

Lon’ika subtly jolts back as the door slides open. They bump into Zeak, who clings onto the back of their clothes — Zeak bumps into the Foundling behind them, who Grogu does not recognise enough to draw a name from.

The Foundling at the far back flounders. They peer around Zeak and Lon’s bodies, eyes widening at the sight of him. They’ve got a furrow in their eyebrows, and a particularly deafening tune to their Song.

It reminds him, mildly, of Goran.

At the painful twang of his chest, Grogu drags his gaze back towards Lon. He pricks up an eyebrow they can’t see. “Yes?”

Zeak presses into Lon’s side. They seem…better, although Grogu could still catch small whiffs of weariness in their Song. Much louder, however, is a motif of restlessness, and Grogu cannot fault them for straying from the bunk.

Maybe he should. Haar’chak, he’s never quite good with Foundlings. He cares for them, obviously, just- 

Y’know. Nevermind.

For a moment, the Foundlings simply stand there — shuffling their feet. Their Songs are singing in similar tunes of a sudden shyness, and Grogu catches his irritation and impatience before it could stew out.

Instead, forcing gentleness in his tone, he goes, “Me’copaani, ad’ike? (What would you like, little ones?) Hmm?”

Thankfully his not-quite gamble of using Mando’a pays off. Zeak murmurs something too quiet for him to catch, but Lon’s head shifts in their direction — apparently listening intently, as if Zeak’s words were truth itself, personified. 

Lon nods, a couple of times. They take in a breath.

As if it were a battle cry, Lon declares, “We wanted to see the stars!” 

The Foundlings standing behind them nod in unison, a steely look in their eyes. 

Grogu pulls a face, nearly squinting. “...where’s Plynne?”

“Sleeping!”

“Vars?”

“Mister Goran wanted to make sure they stayed asleep.”

Grogu lets his head fall to the side, slightly — a small gesture of acceptance. After an experience like that, he wouldn’t be surprised if Plynne had troubles sleeping, neither could he blame Vars for wanting to make sure she did anyway. 

The fact that the Foundlings are…alright enough to explore, after-

Well. Without Plynne, that wouldn’t have been the case.

“Where are the other two?” Grogu nods towards the impromptu ‘crowd’ gathered. “I counted five. Do only three of you want to…’see the stars’?”

“Pretty much,” the Foundling at the back finally chimes in. They shift, stepping closer, but not quite up to Lon’s side. “Brean and Lennise says they’d rather look around in the ship.”

For a moment, fear wracks through Grogu’s spine at the thought of little ad’ike rummaging through his weapons cabinet. Then he remembers that his weapons cabinet is empty, and the thought is as relieving as it is souring.

The Foundlings are staring at him, waiting for his answer. If they were anything like how he and his fri- the others were, when they were all younger, they’d turn right back around if he’d so much as said the word.

Then again, if they were anything like how he was…

Grogu steps to the side, letting them enter the cockpit. It takes a pointed head-jerk for their bravery to move their feet — with widened eyes, the three ad’ike stare around the cockpit with Songs singing full of wonder.

Lon makes immediately for the pilot’s seat. “Ah,” Grogu says, as soon as their hands make to touch the buttons. “Don’t.”

“But-”

“No.”

“I wasn’t-”

Grogu levels them with a stern glare through the tilt of his visor. Lon puts their hands to their lap, properly abashed.

Softly, he huffs. Great. Grogu refuses to feel that twinge of guilt, nor to entertain the nagging thought in his head that says maybe he should be a little bit nicer. He is being nice by letting them even in here — he’s not at fault for not wanting them to end up crash landing against a star.

Crossing his arms, he keeps a careful eye on all three Foundlings as they roam the cockpit. They mostly seem intent to do as they said — stare at the stars as they streak by, the light of them reflected in their irises. Grogu wonders if the shine were the stars or simply their wonder at it all.

His gaze draws to the stars as well, eventually. He remembers…

Well, he remembers Buir. Bit hard to forget him. 

It’d been with him that Grogu had…first seen the stars like this. Memories of the time before that, between the blurriness of Coruscant and Buir were- Are …dark.

But the stars? Oh, the stars. 

What wonder they were. The memory of them burns in his head, but in a way surprisingly not unpleasant. He remembers a cockpit so similar to the one they’re in now, he remembers firm and gentle hands not letting him fall, and he remembers the stars. 

In a sense, they were a lot like Buir. Bright and…

…very, very far away.

He cuts off that thought with a scowl. That scowl only deepens.

He needs to get these kids off to Tatooine. Then, he needs to focus; he has a mission, a duty to fulfil. This had been a distraction. A necessary one, perhaps, but one that needs to end soon. Every second that Moff Gideon spends alive-

“Mister Jai’galaar?”

Grogu forces a breath into his lungs. He grunts, turning his gaze away from the transparisteel windows.

Lon’ika is staring at him, with Zeak not too far behind. They blink. 

“Zeak wanted to ask,” the Foundling in question has a burning kind of gaze, “if you have any animals on board?”

It takes a minute for Grogu to pull himself away from those eyes that, he feels, sees every piece of him. He turns the question over in his head, frowning.

“...animals?” He shifts. “No?”

Zeak frowns. Almost fervently, they grab onto Lon’s arm and tugs them back; whispering something. Lon’s eyes widen, and their eyebrows furrow — murmuring something back just as quietly.

Zeak grunts, pulling a face; insistently, they tug at Lon’s arm. Lon’s expression shifts thoughtfully.

“Okay,” they say to Zeak, nodding. Lon’ika turns back towards him. “It’s just- There are scratches, Mister Jai’galaar, sir. On the speakers and some in the bunks. Zeak just thought there was an animal there. And- and if there was, if we could see them…?”

If Grogu did have animals on the ship, it’d have been hard to not cave and show them. Jeez, Foundling puppy-eyes are a weapon too dangerous for war.

“I don’t have-” He stops, thinking about their words some more. Scratches, they said. On the speakers, in the bunks. 

His fingers twitch. Grogu shifts his arm, crossing them tighter over his chest; the feel of his claws against his arm burns.

“Right,” he says. “Sorry. I forgot. I’ve got…pests.”

Lon blinks. “Pests?”

“Yeah. A…a womp rat.”

…a womp rat. Really, Djarin?

“Oh,” Lon says. They’re frowning, and so is Zeak. “I don’t think I wanna see a womp rat.”

“No, you do not.” Why is it so much harder to lie to a couple of Foundlings? Maybe because no matter what he says, there’s always the nagging feeling that they know anyway — that lying is a futile endeavour, and that he’s only digging his grave deeper.

Maybe it’s just guilt — plain and simple.

“Sorry,” he says, again, for lack of anything else. “Can’t seem to get rid of it. Stubborn thing.”

Zeak’s expression settles into a resigned acceptance. They nod, sagely — as if well acquainted with the typical stubbornness of a womp rat.

“The womp rat likes to steal things?” The third Foundling speaks up, then. They’re staring at him, glancing between him and the levers on the console. “‘Cause I think there was s’posed to be somethin’ over here-”

Their fingers stray towards the gear shift. Grogu shifts up, sharply.

“Don’t touch that!”

The Foundling flinches, with a little choked-back cry. They pull their arms swiftly to their chest, drawing their shoulders in — almost as if they suddenly want to make themselves smaller, as small as they could.

Grogu reels back. There’s a roaring of blood in his ears that deafens him. He swallows, tightly, against the tide of guilt.

Ah, shit — the ad’ika is staring at him, warily. As if waiting for a strike. He knows the feeling.

There’s only one way forward, here. And it does not involve letting the sparking irritation in his veins, only fueled by the guilt, to grow into a proper flame.

Instead, Grogu slowly moves his arms; raising them with palms facing forward, a not-quite gesture of surrender. At the very least, a gesture of peace. 

“ N’eparavu takisit (I’m sorry,),” he murmurs. His voice doesn’t need to be loud — the cockpit is silent, and he has all three of the Foundlings’ attention now. “I didn’t mean to yell.”

Well. He did, but they don’t need to know that.

Foundling no. 3’s eyes narrow, just slightly. Somehow, it manages to sting more than Plynne’s distrust had. 

Grogu suddenly drops his arms to his side; weary. He sighs. “You were saying?”

He hopes they see the olive branch for what it is. Or, like, don’t or whatever — he doesn’t really care. He doesn’t. He doesn’t.

“...the lever, here.” The Foundling says, at last. They not-quite turn, almost as if wary to put their back to him, pointing at the…gear shift. Their fingers move around in the empty space where the knob should’ve been. “I think something used to be there.”

Numbly, Grogu nods. “Yeah, there was. It’s…missing, now.”

“Womp rat?”

“...sure.” Grogu leans back. He clasps his hands together, entwining fingers; their gaze, he feels, is the most similar to Goran . Staring at him as if they know all the answers already and were simply waiting to see what he would say. 

Maybe , Grogu wonders, idly and bitterly as he firmly looks away and out the transparisteel windows. Maybe, if he was particularly lucky, he’d be able to see the silver-ball lookalike out in space. Drifting, aimlessly.

Maybe, if he were particularly damned to hell.

“Let’s go with that.”

The cockpit is empty, again. Save for him, but he doesn’t really count. He’s practically a ghost, in all sense of the word, except for the fact that he’s still alive.

Unfortunately for everyone involved.

They’re drifting aimlessly in space. Or, at least, that was what he’d told the Foundlings to tell the others. Because he needs to sleep, he said. And he doesn’t want to crash out of hyperspace when he does.

He hopes Vars would vouch for him, at least in that sense. Judging by the lack of angry footsteps storming up to the cockpit, he assumes Vars did. Thankfully, the Crest II doesn’t have any windows in the cargo hold.

Or else this would’ve been really awkward to explain.

In truth, when they’d dropped out of hyperspace, they’d already arrived. The planet of Tatooine looms, menacingly. A behemoth of…complicated memories and hard decisions. It’s just a planet, he’s tried to reason, multiple times. It won’t hurt you.

It’s hard to believe himself. 

It’s faced with this, now, that Grogu had seen fit to try and buy himself time — just to think, and plan. That’s why he had…bent the truth a little. 

…don’t give him that look. Okay, fine, he'd outright lied about it. But he had to. 

There was no way he was about to just…swoop in, drop them off at the palace, then go off on his merry way. He wished it’d be that easy, but it won’t. Not if the Daimyo had anything to say about it.

Thoughtfully, Grogu drums his fingers atop the arm of the pilot’s seat. His gaze roves the planet’s surface, combing through them as his brain combs through idea after idea, plan after plan.

He can’t drop them off at the palace. He can’t abandon them to the Dunes.

…suppose he’ll have to settle for an in-between.

Grogu pulls up a map of Tatooine, pressing buttons until blinking red dots appear on its flickering, holographic surface. He easily recognises Mos Espa — that’s much too close, and not at all safe.

Peli was in Mos Espa. 

He hopes she’s…alright. He wonders if she knows. If she knows that, without her gift — this ship — he wouldn’t have been able to make it as far as he did. Maybe he should thank her.

…after. After he’s put Moff Gideon into a deep, unmarked grave. After.

After is a vague and abstract thought — after is grey fog and fuzzy ideas and things he’d rather not think about right now, if at all. After doesn’t seem real.

He draws himself back to the present with a sharp breath of air, stabbing into his lungs. He moves his attention away from Mos Espa, towards the other red dots.

…there. Mos Pelgo. Or… Freetown, as the locals liked to call it. That’s appropriately far enough away. Vars and Plynne could work together to catch a ride back to the palace. Or bargain for one, or intimidate — regardless, they’re capable. They’ll know what to do. 

He’s not completely abandoning them. Although it very much feels like it, he’s not. They’ll be fine. They’ll get themselves home. 

And Grogu will carry on.

He turns the ship’s engines back on. They sputter, and roar — the Crest II almost disgruntled at being awoken so quickly. He ignores the thought.

Very quickly, he activates the ship’s intercom. “We’re here,” he says. He turns it back off without much fanfare.

Then, thinking about it for a minute, he takes a second to make sure the cockpit doors are actually locked. They are, and just in time too — Plynne’s Song wafts louder through the door, and she knocks a second later.

“We’re here?” They practically demand — their voice is muffled through the door. “What do you mean, we’re here? You said we were drifting.”

Grogu shrugs, turning away. “I lied. Take a seat, Plynne.”

“You-”

Grogu seizes the controls and steers the ship towards Tatooine’s surface. He hears a muffled curse, a couple more hammering knocks, before a bout of turbulence from their descent into the atmosphere must knock Plynne a little too off balance — they concede, grumbling all the way.

It’s listening to the way Plynne’s Song and voice fade away into a near-silence does he realise how empty the ship will be, afterwards. It’s a sudden spark of fear — a cold, freezing cold sensation, as if his own spear had been driven through his back. He’s seized with the sudden urge to call back out to Plynne, because any company is better than-

And then the feeling fades. His resolve stitches itself back together. His jaw sets.

They fly through Tatooine’s atmosphere. The Dunes glimmer in the soft light of the rising suns. Grogu gives Mos Espa and the Palace a wide berth, burning necessary fuel in his detour; watches red-rock ridges peek out like islands amidst the sea of sand.

At some point, they fly over a group of Sand People, who wave their sticks up at them. This far, Grogu can’t tell if it’s a greeting or a warning; it’s irrelevant, really.

He doesn’t look at their sticks. It’s not important. He doesn’t look at them. It’s not important. He flies past the Sand People. It’s not important.

(...fun fact. The sticks. They’re called gaderffii. Gaffi sticks. Exclusive only to the Tuskens, save for any they seem worthy for the honour.)

(The Daimyo had one of those.)

“Hey, Grogu?” That was Vars, now, knocking on the door. He sounds nervous. “Where are- The others are starting to get pretty… nervous.”

Grogu doesn’t answer. That’s not exactly a question, so there isn’t anything to answer.

“...mind telling where we are, at least?”

“Tatooine.”  

A silence — almost surprised. “Are we actually?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not lying?”

Irritation makes his lip curl. “No, Vars,” Grogu just barely keeps himself from gritting out, “I am not lying.”

Some more silence.

“Are you sure?”

“Oh my gods-” Harshly, Grogu presses against a button on his console. The cockpit doors slide open with enough suddenness to make Vars yelp and trip, by the sounds of it. “Check it out for yourself, then. Hrmph.”

It takes only a half second of hesitation, before Vars’ footsteps come up behind his seat. “Woah,” he says. “You were telling the truth.”

“I do that a lot.”

“Sure.” The pilot’s seat shifts, as if Vars had leaned against it. “So we’re really doing this, huh? You’re really heading back to the palace.”

Grogu gnaws quietly on his bottom lip.

“I mean, not that I doubted you or anything-”

“I’m not.” Grogu breathes in — for strength. “I’m not. Heading back to the palace, Vars. I can’t.”

Those last two words are breathed out, softly. Vars’ melody churns like an upset ocean.

“If we’re not heading back to the palace…”

“Freetown. Or, Mos Pelgo.”

“Oh.” Another, brief silence. “I don’t think anyone calls it Mos Pelgo anymore.”

“Don’t they?”

“Nope. So, you’re going to…Freetown.”

Grogu spies a cluster of buildings on the horizon. “I’ll drop you off there. You can handle the rest.”

“...right.” There’s a dull thud — the telltale sound of gloved hands clasping together. “Uhm- I’ll…tell the others not to worry, then.”

Freetown is a…small town, Grogu notes, idly. It scratches some familiar itch at the back of his head. He frowns.

“...huh? Oh.” He realises Vars is still standing there. Keeping one hand on the controls, Grogu waves him off. “Yeah, yeah- Go on. I need to land.”

Vars makes a soft humming sound — at once too vague and too overcomplicated for him to understand or decipher. There’s another heartbeat’s worth of a hesitation, before footsteps clanging against the metal floor lead out and away.

The doors slide back shut behind him. Grogu’s frown deepens.

Has he…been to Freetown before? He can’t remember. It looks familiar. It…sounds familiar as well.

…maybe he’d paid it a visit with the Daimyo before. Yes, surely. That, and he’s simply pushed that memory far into the back reaches of his head, as would any sensible person do. If that’s the case, Grogu doesn’t want to think about it — if that’s the case, Grogu shouldn’t think about it.

There. Problem solved. Stop thinking about it.

Grogu lands the Crest II in an open area, keeping a large but still walkable distance away from the cluster of buildings. When flying over, he’d spotted curious locals tipping their heads back — now, he sees those same locals stare at the ship from across the distance.

He drags his gaze away. He’s not even going to get close enough to talk to them — can’t risk it. The whole of Tatooine is loyal to the Daimyo, after all. Every passing second that he’s here-

Thoughtlessly, as he slides off the pilot’s seat and heads out of the cockpit, his hands rub at his wrists. There’s an odd, quiet, burning sensation.

The cargo hold is full of tense energy. It’s only when he drops down does it clarify — it’s excitement.

Plynne is shepherding the Foundlings together, answering their clamouring questions and running their fingers through strands of hair as a makeshift comb. They catch sight of him and, for a moment, hesitate.

Then, she steps closer. Grogu instinctively tenses up.

“You could’ve just said something,” Plynne…chides. It’s almost light-hearted, had it not been for the very real glare. “I’ve been to Freetown. I know the Marshal here. He’s a good man.”

“Good,” Grogu tilts his head, “then you’ll have no problem getting to the palace on your own.”

“You’re not coming.” It’s not a question.

“No,” Grogu answers, anyway. Softer, now, he says, “I can’t.”

Nothing in Plynne’s melody, nor her eyes, change. She merely glances to the side and scoffs, quietly. “Right,” she mutters, “I should’ve known.”

Grogu stares at her. Quietly, he says, “Maybe you should’ve.”

Vars walks out of the bunks, just then. He’s sliding his helmet over his head. “Right. We’re ready?”

With one long, last look shared between them, Plynne steps back. “Yeah,” they say, turning back to the Foundlings. “We’re ready.”

Grogu moves — past them and the Foundlings, to the far end of the ship. He lowers the ramp, listening to the way the gears shift and crank — scowling when it stops, still, a third of the way down.

“Dank Farrik-”

“Bad word!” Lon’ika points at him. “Mister Jai’galaar said a bad word!”

Plynne gives him a glare more deadly and wrathful than any she’d ever given him. Grogu raises his arms up at surrender — because he knows when a fight has lost, apologetically ducks his head.

“We’re not going to the palace?”

“We are.” Plynne rests a hand on the head of one Foundling — that Goran -like one, he recognises. She’s offering them a soft smile. “We’re just stopping by Freetown. Don’t you wanna meet Marshal Vanth in person?”

“Like the one in your stories?”

“The same one. Maybe he can tell you a story. Maybe about the krayt dragon.” 

Grogu pricks up an eyebrow. “Krayt dragon?”

“Plynne says,” Lon’ika exclaims, excitedly pumping their arms up and down, “that Marshal Vanth took down a krayt dragon with one of his friends, once!”

“Did he now?” That…shouldn’t sound familiar. Grogu gives Plynne a pointed look. “Sounds…very genuine.”

Plynne returns his gaze evenly, save for a quiet and very subtle wince. “Doubt all you want. I believe him.”

He snorts, softly. “I’m sure you do.”

More people have gathered around the edge of town, now — watching them. Grogu spots a figure that was probably Marshal Vanth, judging by the way the crowd shifts to let him through.

Plynne drops off the ramp first, landing on the ever-shifting grains of sand. One by one, she helps the Foundlings to the ground — checking them over, before shepherding them across the sands. 

They’re about halfway across the distance does Grogu call out. Despite himself, despite his better judgement, despite everything-

“Be…safe, Plynne.”

Plynne stops, glancing back towards him. This far, Grogu can’t see the look in her eyes, and the Song she sings is lost to the sands.

But she nods. She pats her waist once, then turns back around and leads the Foundlings to the buildings of Freetown.

For a moment, Grogu watches them.

Then, he blinks.

“...Vars?” He glances back, eyebrows furrowing. “What’re you doing?”

“Waving.”

Vars…was waving, technically. A Foundling whips around to wave back, and a soft burst of amusement blooms in his melody.

Grogu, on the other hand, is still staring. His eyes narrow. “What’re you doing here, I mean. You’re not-”

“Going back?” Finally, Vars drops his arm — finally, Vars turns around to look at him. Grogu can see the way his own helmet is reflected in the visor of his brother. “And who’d look after you?”

Grogu blinks — once, twice, a third. He feels himself say, “I don’t need-”

“Grogs.”

“I don't .”

“Grogs,” Vars sighs. Reaching past him, the young goran presses a button and the ramp begins to lift itself back up. Then, he drops to his knees, and Grogu has only a second to think — uh oh, really serious talk time.

“Let me stay,” Vars says. The softness of his voice seeps through the vocoder; it cracks, and crackles, as if in tune with its wearer’s emotion. “Let me stay. Let me watch your back. Besides, two pairs of eyes are better than one, right?”

Grogu blinks. He breathes in, slowly and intentionally. “But you- you can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Your…” Grogu grapples for a reason. “Apprenticeship?”

“The Armourer isn’t dying anytime soon.”

“Your buir-”

“He’s not dying either. You, on the other hand-” Vars grabs onto his shoulders, firmly. Gently, but firmly. Grogu gets the sense that Vars’ eyes are searching him, and wonders if that’s why he’s donned his helmet for this. 

Very quietly, like a confession of sin, Vars murmurs, “I thought I lost you once already.”

This time, when Grogu breathes in, he can’t help the quiet hitch in his voice.

“It won’t be fun,” he warns, hoarsely. “It won’t be pleasant.”

“Obviously not. When have you ever made anything fun?”

“Oh, shut up-” Grogu grabs onto the fur lining Vars’ shoulders, entwining his fingers in their strands. Almost harshly, he leans in to headbutt the beskar of Vars’ cuirass. “It’ll be dangerous. It’ll- it’ll be rotten. I’m-”

“Don’t say that.”

“I am. I am, Vars. I’m not-” 

I’m not the one you knew, Grogu wants to say. I’m not that kid anymore. I’m not the same as when you first started calling me your brother. 

He doesn’t say any of that, because despite it all — because, damn it all — he doesn’t actually want Vars to leave.

He doesn’t actually want to be alone.

“Okay,” he says — breathes out. There’s a thank you on his tongue that he doesn’t say either. “Okay.”

Vars’ grip shifts. He moves to pull Grogu tighter against his chest. Willingly, Grogu lets himself be pulled.

He can hear the beating of Vars’ heart.

“So,” Vars says, cradling his helmet in his lap. He’s leaned up comfortably in the passenger’s seat, and Grogu hopes that at some point of this journey the young goran finally picks one to sit on consistently. “Anywhere we’re going?”

“Back to Caine. I need his intel.” Grogu quickly punches in the coordinates to Mayfeld’s base into the nav computer. He leans back, watching as the dark expanse begins to be filled with streaking stars once more. “To refuel, too. Fix the ship. Stock up the weapon’s cabinet.”

“Oh, yeah-” Vars snaps his fingers. “About that. So I gave Plynne my blaster, just in case. You still have yours, though, don’t you?”

Slowly, Grogu spins the pilot’s seat around to look at him. “You did what?”

“Gave them my blaster!”

“That’s-” Grogu struggles for the words. “That was my blaster.”

“Oh. Well-” Vars waves it off. “You still have the one you were using, though, is what I meant.”

Grogu’s hands stray to his belt, fingers brushing against…nothing, actually. “Uhm-” His eyebrows furrow, before his eyes suddenly widen as the memory jolts back into his brain. “I don’t, actually. I threw it on the ground.”

“...what?” Vars is staring at him. “Why would you do that?”

Grogu huffs. “W- well why would you give Plynne my blaster?”

“For emergencies! We can’t have just dumped her off without even a weapon to defend herself-”

“Okay! And I threw mine on the ground back on Morak. So between us,” Grogu gestures between the both of them, almost aggressively, “we don’t even have a blaster.”

Vars clicks his tongue. “...yeah, no. We don’t. I hope Caine still likes you.”

Grogu drops his arms to his lap. “Yeah,” he breathes, like a horrified whisper. “Or we’re dead.”

“...and on that cheery note!” Vars claps his hands together. “You should get some sleep.”

“What.”

“What?”

“Wh-” Grogu blinks. His head’s spinning. “I don’t need sleep, Vars. I need to watch the ship- Unless you’d like a repeat of what happened last time-”

“I can watch!”

“You don’t know how-”

“I do so.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“I-” Vars actually thinks about it, for a moment. “Well, you can show me. Or I can wake you up when it gets all…beepy beepy.”

If Grogu hadn’t been wearing his helmet, he would’ve rubbed at the bridge of his nose in sheer distress. As it is, he curls his fingers into a fist and slaps the side of that against his visor. “Is this going to keep happening? You’re going to bully me into doing stuff I don’t want to?”

“Stop being dramatic,” Vars huffs, crossing his arms. “I at least have slept, while on the way to Morak.”

“I slept too!” And he rather likes being dramatic, thank you very much.

“That was not sleep. That,” Vars gestures to the pilot’s seat, “isn’t a bed, Grogs.”

“So?”

“You passed out in the pilot’s seat and nearly got us to crash.”

“And you want me to do that again-”

“Have you ever actually slept in your bunks, Grogs?” Vars lifts up a finger. “Be honest.”

Grogu huffs, leaning back. “Obviously I have.”

“Do you do that every time you fall asleep?”

“Yes.”

Vars’ eyes narrow.

“...no,” Grogu concedes, through a lip curled. He groans, throwing his arms up in frustration. “My gods I should’ve just left you behind. You’re irritating.”  

“Classic quacta calling the stifling slimy moment.”

“Shut up.”

“Shut eye. That’s the goal.” Vars waggles that finger, then abruptly sobers up; expression shifting with such haste that Grogu feels another bout of dizziness and oh, maybe he should sleep.

“This is what I mean.” Vars gestures, at the whole of him. “I’m here, Grogs. Let me watch your back. Let me keep watch, literally.”

Grogu glances away, gnawing on his bottom lip.

“...can’t catch your father’s killer if you’re asleep on the job-”

“That’s low. That’s a low blow.”

“I’m right, though. You know I am.”

“Still.” Grogu heaves a long, shoulder-dropping sigh. “Fine. If that gets you to shut up about it.”

“I won’t be saying anything while you’re sleeping, that’s for sure.” Vars grins at him, like a loth-wolf; full of teeth. 

Grogu snorts at him. “You’re horrible.”

He slides off the pilot’s seat, landing on his feet. His leg had healed quite nicely, now — nothing more than the odd twang here or there.

“When it gets all,” Grogu gestures, vaguely at the console, “beepy beepy, wake me up. Should be a few hours still.”

“Aye aye,” Vars’ eyebrows raise — teasingly, in a much lower tone, he adds, “‘alor’.”

“Do not.” Grogu glowers at him as he walks past. “I will eject you into space.”

“That’s not very alor behaviour of you.”

Grogu punches his arm. Vars shoves him back. They scuffle for about a second, before Vars manages to forcefully push him out of the cockpit.

“Bye!” Vars says, cheerfully, before the doors slide shut.

Rubbing some non-existent dust off of his armour, Grogu huffs at the closed doors. He allows himself the warmth in his chest, because- Well, because he likes it. And now that Vars had brought it up, he’s much too tired to pretend otherwise.

Despite that, he pauses to give the cockpit one, last, long look.

Then he descends the ladder, and heads for the bunks.

A gust of wind blows sand against his visor. With a grunt, soft, Grogu lifts a hand to wipe those pesky grains off. 

The expanse of Tatooine stretches before him; sand dunes rolling, grains glittering underneath the Suns. It’s early morning — evident by the pleasant warmth and not quite heat, evident by the way the rising stars send streaks of a purple and orange painted sky.

There’s a hand, on his shoulder — a gentle touch pulling him back down to earth.

“Steady,” says Ver’gebuir. “Ke’sush, verd’ika (pay attention, little soldier).”

Grogu resists the urge to snipe back, cheekily — I am paying attention.

“You are not,” Ver’gebuir chides, as if he’d said that aloud. Thankfully, he seems only amused and not quite annoyed. Yet. “Look to the sands. If you can’t see, feel it. If not that, then listen.”

Grogu breathes out a long, slow, breath. He looks back over the barrel of the sniper rifle — through its scope, and watches the sands.

…what was he looking for, again?

Ver’gebuir snorts. “Forgotten, have you?”

Well, cut him some slack. He’s got a lot on his mind.

“And does that forgive you?” Buir says; his voice is sterner, more…disappointed. “Is that an excuse?”

Sharply, Grogu pulls away from the look piece, staring up with wide eyes. 

Buir is standing with his shins half-buried into the Dunes, a couple distances away. He has his arms to his side — fingers curled into fists. There’s a thinness to his narrowed eyes. 

“There are no do-overs, kid,” Buir calls, across the distance. “Better not lose what you have.”

Wait. Grogu struggles to his feet. He leaves the rifle behind. Wait, Buir, wait-

He hears it, first. He feels it, second. He sees it, the very last-

The ground beneath his feet rumbles. He stumbles as the sands abruptly shift, falling forward-first; the sands burn with heat against the palms of his hands as he tries to catch himself.

There’s a deafening roar. Bursting from the ground is a krayt dragon; waterfalls of sand fall from its back. It’s screeching, racing forward — past him, as if it hadn’t noticed him hidden against the sands. 

With a lunge, its beastly, nightmarish maw parted, it swallows his father whole-

Grogu wakes up with a screech, lurching forward. 

He draws his knees close to his chest. He’s shaking. He’s-

He’s in the Crest II.

He’s in the bunks — on the bottom bunk, where he’d flopped and lay and didn’t move after. There’s a blanket pooling on his lap. The mattress beneath him is firm.

Shivering, Grogu rubs his palms together. He’s gotten so used to wearing gloves that the feel of his bare skin, now, is almost… odd. Such that there’s a burning sensation, as if he’d just touched something hot.

His heart hammering ruthlessly against his throat, such that he thinks he tastes bile, Grogu breathes in.

Grogu breathes out.

He presses his hands against his forehead. They’re still shaking. He entwines his fingers together, gripping tightly.

The bunks are dim and quiet. There are only the sounds of his own breaths, and that of Crest II’s engines rumbling. Grogu’s ears twitch as he listens; takes it all in and lets reality bleed back in, like blood through a piece of white fabric.

When the blood in his veins isn’t so violently rushing, he uncurls himself. Grogu huffs out a sharp breath of air — in and out — before swinging his legs over the edge of the bunk and letting them dangle.

Without looking, he reaches down. He runs his palm against the metal of the bunk frame. He can feel the scratches and groves, there; knows that if he were to rest his claws against them, just like the ones at the console, they would match.

He wonders if there are any new ones. He never checks.

Womp rat, indeed. Buir had always been fond of calling him that.

His gaze strays to the edge of the mattress. His helmet stands amidst the neatly arranged pile of the rest of his armour. Its visor stares at him — dark and empty.

Something about monsters and the eye of that beholding them.

His feet makes a soft clanging noise against the metal of the ship’s floor. Rubbing at his eyes, Grogu pushes his way out of the bunks — leaves behind blurry nightmares and that quiet sense of dread, that feeling like he’s-

Forgotten something. Something… important.

Vars is sitting in the cargo hold. He’s braced his arms against the surface of what Grogu had been using as a table, gnawing idly at a ration bar as his eyes rove against the contents of the datapad. 

He looks up, when Grogu approaches. Vars’ eyes widen.

The ration bar drops out of his mouth. “You look like shit.”

Grogu stops. He blinks, hard. “...what?”

“You-” Vars remembers himself. He leans back, leaving the datapad on the table to quickly wave his hands around in a gesture. “I mean- You just- You look really tired, still. Did you even sleep?”

“Definitely did,” Grogu mutters. He clambers up onto a seat opposite Vars — finally pulling his hand away from his eyes, just to snatch up some fruit that Plynne and the Foundlings hadn’t gotten to, and a knife.

Vars crosses his arms. His eyebrows are knitted tightly together. “You look like someone ran you over while you slept.”

Grogu grunts. He peels off a long strip of fruit skin.

“You look like someone took you by the ankles and shoved you into a closet-”

“I got the picture, Vars.” Grogu glances away from his fruit, briefly, to glower. “‘S just bad dreams. That’s it.”

Something in Vars’ eyes settles, but something just as well is pulling the corners of his lips downwards into a frown. “Still?”

“What, they’re supposed to stop?”

“I mean… eventually? Or at least get…I dunno, less.”

Grogu cuts off a piece of fruit, sticking it inside his mouth. He shrugs — wordless. There’s nothing to say to that. Not like he’d chase away his nightmares just by talking about them. Not that he tried, obviously, but the very idea is…stupid.

Vars is still staring at him. If anything, it’s gotten worse — that worried look not quite replaced, but rather joined, by an expression of outright confusion.

Grogu glances up, meeting Vars’ shameless staring with a raised eyebrow look of his own. “...what?”

“Oh.” Vars blinks. He seems to realise that he’d been staring — he glances away. Then, as if he can’t look away for too long, glances back. “Nothing, nothing. Just…can’t remember if your eyes had always been that colour.”

Another piece of fruit halfway to his mouth, Grogu stops. “...what colour?”

“Yellow.”

Grogu blinks, again. Quickly, he sticks the fruit piece into his mouth, then twists the knife around to stare at his reflection along the flat side.

Sure enough, a pair of…dull yellow eyes stare back at him. They’re not bright, by any means — in the right lighting, one might not even call them that colour.

And yet, here they are.

“...hurm,” Grogu says, through a mouthful of fruit. “Pretty sure they were brown.”

“Right?” Vars exclaims — he looks relieved to know that he hasn’t just gone crazy. “Why’d the- why’d they change like that?”

Grogu stares at his reflection some more.

Then, he shrugs, and goes back to cutting up some fruit. “Dunno. Probably a…species thing? Like a sign of maturity, maybe?”

“You’re not sure?”

“Don’t remember seeing anyone else of my species.” Well, other than…but that’d been ages ago, Grogu can barely remember.

“Huh,” Vars says. He leans forward, propping his head up on his elbow. “Wait, you said a sign of maturity?”

Grogu freezes. Oh, he is not fond of that tone. Looking up, he quickly decides that he is not fond of that look either — that osik-eating grin that Vars now has, stretching across his face.

Grogu groans, dropping his head. “Oh, what is it now?”

“You said ‘sign of maturity’.” Through his peripheral, he can see Vars do air quotes with his fingers, before he presses his palms flat against the table and leans forward. “Are you going through puberty?”

“Wh-” Grogu snaps his head up. “No!”

“You are! Oh, that explains everything!”

“No, it does not .”

“It does! You’ve got weird,” Vars gestures vaguely at him, “weird…hormone things going on-”

Grogu shoves the piece of fruit he’d been cutting out into Vars’ mouth, effectively shutting him up. “Please, stop talking. I said it might be, di’kut. It probably isn’t.”

Vars leans back. He chews thoughtfully on the fruit for a few seconds, before swallowing. “Well, what is it, then? If not the obvious answer.”

Grogu huffs, glowering. “Maybe,” he says, through gritted teeth, and gesturing at Vars with a knife, “it’s a sign that I’m about to go off the rails crazy. Maybe it’s a warning. Maybe I’m going to kill everyone. Ever think of that?”

There’s a long silence.

“Like…in the holonovelas? That’s so cliché.”

Grogu sticks another piece of fruit in his mouth to avoid answering. Because if he did, he was probably going to agree on just how cliché it was. And that would be admitting defeat, and dealing with the alternative of godsdamned puberty.

More urgently, this time, Vars leans forward. “Grogs,” he says, “if no one’s told you about what was going to happen, how do you…y’know, know it’s not puberty.”

“We’re not having this conversation.”

“Well someone’s gotta talk about it!”

“Why don’t we talk about you apparently not being in the cockpit, huh? Do you want us to crash?”

“Ugh.” Vars points a waggling, warning finger. “You can’t escape it forever, Djarin. We will have that talk-”

Just then, Grogu thanks all of his luck and whatever gods there could be hanging around, because a loud beeping sound fills the air. They know what it is immediately.

Vars stands, pushing his seat back. His eyes are wide. “We’re-?”

“Here,” Grogu answers, abandoning the knife and fruit on the table. He lands on his feet, making towards the ladder.

“C’mon. Lemme introduce you to Mike Caine.”

Chapter Text

For a second, Grogu hesitates.

The bunks are quiet; only the sounds of his quiet breaths, and the low murmuring notes of his Song breaking a complete silence. Time holds its breath, and the Force is its mirror.

In his hands, the visor of his helmet stares back at him, ever patiently. Grogu stares back.

For once, he is looking to find those ghosts of his. Are they still there? Have they abandoned him?

They wouldn’t. He wouldn't. Grogu’s doing this for him, after all — avenging his father's memory. Buir wouldn't leave.

Then again-

Then again, he has always been fond of doing that.

A chill gnaws at the bones of Grogu's spine. He shivers, and tries not to think that the visor's gaze has gotten cold. It hasn't, he thinks — he's never seen a cold visor before. Not from himself and not from other Mandalorians.

This…is something else entirely.

He turns the visor away and slides his helmet over his head. There's a soft hiss of air, that soft hiss of air, and then the buy'ce comes to life. 

Something in him settles into place, like a final puzzle piece. He's not so much Grogu Djarin with the helmet on — he's more bounty hunter, Jai'galaar, Mando. It’s how it's meant to be — it's safer, this way.

He prefers it, this way. 

(...He's not all that fond of who Grogu Djarin is.)

Just before he leaves, he gives himself one, last cursory glance over — an unnecessary check to make sure that all the pieces of his armour, all the pieces of him, are exactly where they're supposed to be.

Then, he walks out of the bunks.

Vars is there, out in the cargo hold, staring out at the closed ramp and idly tapping a foot. He turns around at the sound of Grogu's footsteps, visor angling to the side.

Grogu angles his visor in turn. He makes a beeline for the button to lower the ramp. "Ready?"

"Mm." Vars huffs. "Before we head out there, is there anything I should know about….'Mike Caine'?"

Grogu stops in his tracks. "Uh," he says, eloquently. "Like what?"

"You tell me."

Quickly, firmly, Grogu pushes away the quick-paced tapping notes of a minor sort of panic. He's not a child with a hand down a cookie jar — or so he's insistent on telling himself.

Grogu leans marginally away from the ramp controls. "Uh," he says, yet again — mind racing to sort everything he knows about Mayfeld into 'safe to tell' and 'DO NOT TELL' boxes. Thankfully, Vars seems patient enough to wait.

…He could just tell him everything. Vars would know not to let it slip to Mayfeld that he knows and, as far as secrets are, Mayfeld’s are relatively harmless. 

But the secrets aren't his to tell, and-

And it’s not that Grogu cares about Migs Mayfeld —he doesn't, but he's…not a snitch. 

So, there.

"He's a sharpshooter," he manages, at last, because that's safe to tell. When Vars' Song gains that note of appreciation he knew it would, Grogu continues, "Ex-Imperial."

"What?!"

Oops. That was probably better in the ‘DO NOT TELL’ department.

“It was a long time ago,” Grogu says, quickly. He shifts his weight back. “Something-something propaganda, ‘doesn’t excuse what I did’, deflected, yada yada yada. Wasn’t really paying attention. He hates them now though, so. Enemy of my enemy and- n’ what not, I guess.”

“...Oh.” Very slightly, Vars’ shoulders deflate. “Well, jeez- Was he…y’know.”

Grogu does not know. “Huh?”

“Y’know,” Vars says, again — mild irritation in his tone and tune. When he realises that Grogu genuinely does not know, though, he elaborates, “Was he there?”

“For what?”

“The Purge.”

Grogu blinks. His eyebrows furrow. “...no, I don’t think so.”

“You don’t ‘think’ so,” Vars echoes — his voice oddly flat.

“We’re not friends, Vars. He has what I need and I’ve no use for him further than that. Going up to ask ‘hey, were you there for the eradication and destruction of my planet and people’,” Grogu punctuates with air quotes, before crossing his arms, “is kinda…personal?”

Vars reaches up to his visor, as if to rub at the bridge of his nose. A third of the way there, he apparently remembers himself — his fingers twitch and curl in the empty air. 

While Vars recomposes himself, Grogu is left faced with the realisation that he…not quite forgot, per se. But he hadn’t been with the Mandalorians during their purge, so it had been allowed to be pushed into the back of his head.

He realises, just then, standing there, that he’s not the only one the Empire has so unapologetically wronged. That he is not the only victim of Moff Gideon’s cruelty. That his father is not the only corpse left in their wake.

The realisation…it’s not exactly humbling, but-

“I don’t like,” Vars says, just then, “that I can agree with you.”

Grogu snorts, softly — humourless and empty. 

“Caine is…” He trails off. Quietly, Grogu’s lip curls into a grimace, but with a flick of the wrist, he continues, “He’s an asshole, but he’s…genuine. He’s got good intentions. Not exactly a sure moral compass, but like those exist anyway.”

“A straight moral compass? Those…do exist, Grogs.” Now Vars just sounds concerned. He says, slowly and enunciating each word, “Good people exist.”

“Sure, sure.” Dismissively, Grogu waves him off. “You know what I mean though. He’s a lot, yes, but I…trust him. Caine.”

Vars is silent, for a while after that. “...but you don’t care for him.”

“No.” He can’t. He can’t allow himself that.

“You’re an odd one, Grogu Djarin,” is what Vars settles on saying, after a while of silence.

“Like you don’t know that already.”

“Got me there.” Vars straightens up his spine with a sigh. “Well. Now all that’s left is to find out if you were telling the truth.”

…ouch.

For a moment, Grogu gnaws on the inside of his cheek. “Oh, they were all lies,” he elects to say at last — voice flitting up. He presses the button to lower the ramp. “Yeah. Caine doesn’t even exist. We’re going to drop off into the void of space. Ready?”

Lightly, Vars whacks the back of his helmet — the blow collides with a soft thunk, drowned out by the whine and groan of the ship.

A third of the way down, the ramp stops. Grogu’s scowl comes second only to a loud ‘oh, what the hells wrong with it now!?’ that rings across the clearing. It serves only to deepen his scowl — is it too late to turn back?

Probably.

Because Grogu Djarin is not a coward — he isn’t, he isn’t — he leads the way off the ramp, dropping off its edge and landing on his feet. Mayfeld’s clearing stretches before them; the morning sunlight still too bashful to carry any real heat. Shadows still cling to the trees, hued vaguely purple and yet very warm still. Grogu’s tempted to sink into that dark — he bets it’d be comfortable.

It’s a temptation that only grows, when his attention falls on the sharpshooter staring at them from across the distance.

Migs Mayfeld has his arms crossed over his chest. He’s dressed as if he just woke up — bare of the harness and his holster, bare of his weapons. It’s either a display of utter stupidity or of trust. Neither of those thoughts are particularly reassuring.

More moving shadows than actual figures, are the rest of Mayfeld’s crew — clamouring at each other in warm tones of familiarity. They pop in and out of tents, waving and hollering and, otherwise, do a fine job of appearing to not care about their arrival.

But Grogu catches on to one too many long glances, one too many curiously singing Songs, and he knows better. He’s not surprised — they barely stopped their gawking back when it was just him, and Vars isn’t the most subtle of Mandalorians either.

When they get closer, pushing through the grass still damp in morning dew, Grogu realises that Mayfeld isn’t looking at them, exactly. He’s staring at the ship, a glare through thinly narrowed eyes.

“Do I want to ask?” Is the first thing he says, when they finally get close enough. Mayfeld then immediately shuts his eyes. “No. No, I don’t.”

“You don’t,” Grogu agrees, very helpfully in his humble opinion. He stops walking, and Vars falls into step behind him. “Morak went okay.”

“Obviously.”

Vars pointedly clears his throat. “Not that we could’ve done it without you, so. Thank you.”

Both Grogu and Mayfeld turn their heads towards him in unison. While Grogu’s got a scowl Vars can’t see, however, Mayfeld’s eyebrows have lifted up — there’s a hesitant smile, tugging at the corners of his lips, and a pleasant motif to his Song.

“Well, guess I was right about you being likeable.” Mayfeld holds out a hand — Vars takes it, and they shake. “Mike Caine. A pleasure.”

“Vars. Vars Prente.”

The shaking motion abruptly seizes up. Mayfeld sounds a bit…choked. “That’s- That’s a name.”

“Yes.” Vars sounds amused. “We have those.”

Mayfeld, shameless as always, is gaping — jaw dropped, eyes wide and everything. 

Grogu pointedly clears his throat. “A bug is going to fly into your mouth, sharpshooter.”

Mayfeld shuts his jaw — click . “Uh,” he articulates eloquently. “Should- Is that, like, an honour? Should I be flattered?”

Grogu notes that Mayfeld is still holding onto Vars’ arm.

“I mean, I do think my presence is humbling through sheer existence,” Vars says, smoothly enough to near send the joke flying over their heads. “But it’s just a name. I give it freely.”

“Huh,” says Mayfeld, again. Without letting go, the sharpshooter uses their joined hands to point at Vars. “You do?”

“Yes.” At least Vars doesn’t seem uncomfortable by the touching. Grogu would’ve been uncomfortable by the touching long ago. Maybe that’s why they don’t touch him.

Good. “

It’s a creed thing,” Vars explains at last, surprisingly patiently. “I could tell you more if you’d like-”

“You could not.” Grogu’s own voice is flat.

Vars turns his head around to stare down at him. “Jai-”

“No.” Grogu angles his visor vaguely downwards; communicating his scowl in ways he knows Vars will understand. Quieter, he says, “‘Our secrecy is our survival’.”

Vars’ shoulders sag. “Oh, don’t. Don’t use that against me.”

“‘Our secrecy’,” Grogu only repeats, putting weight behind each and every syllable, “‘is our survival’.”

“This is treachery, this is. You’re betraying me.” Vars, to his credit, tries his best to stand against Grogu’s pointed silence. “Don’t. Jai’galaar, don’t.”

Grogu tilts his head the other way.

“Oh, for the- Fine, fine!” Finally, Vars pulls his arm out of Mayfeld’s handshake — just to wave both hands around in a frustrated gesture. “‘Secrecy our survival and survival is our strength’, whatever! Whatever! What. Ever. I hate you.”

Grogu huffs a breath of air through his nose. “I’m right. You know I am.”

Vars crosses his arms. Pointedly, he does not say anything.

Grogu shakes his head. “We need a few days,” he says to Mayfeld — who’d been watching with raised eyebrows and an odd look to his eyes. Those eyes snap towards him, just then. “To fix the ship. Refuel. I need to get a job. Then we’ll need to leave.”

Mayfeld blinks, slowly. “Leave?”

“Yes, Caine. The list. The names. Surely,” Grogu’s voice turns tight and softly sneering, “you haven’t forgotten.”

Mayfeld’s eyes narrow — probably from the utter condescending, deadened tone Grogu spoke with. “Right,” says he, with a huff of a sigh. He adds, “You know, when I said I’d give ‘em to you after a day, I expected you to, what, rest?”

“What I do with my time is none of your business.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. You’ve made that clear. Karkin’,” the sharpshooter mutters, “galavanting off into the galaxy like it’ll kill you.”

“It would.”

“You said ‘we’,” Mayfeld notes, out loud. He glances between Vars, who’s sulking, and Grogu, who’s trying very hard not to look at the way Vars is sulking. “You’re working together, then?”

“Yeah,” Vars chimes in, still rather moodily. The tilt of his visor indicates that he’s glowering. “Someone needs to keep my di’kutla shabuir osik of a brother alive.”

“Di’kutla shabuir osik (useless jerk shit),” Grogu echoes, almost thoughtfully. “Those are a lot of words.”

“They’re all true.”

“Brother?” Mayfeld is rubbing at his temples, as if stressed. “Hold on- Hold on, he’s your brother?”

“Yeah.”

“Unfortunately.”

Mayfeld is staring at him. “You didn’t tell me you had a brother.”

“‘Have’,” Grogu corrects, against the mild churning in his gut. He doesn’t like to think about a world where Vars doesn’t exist. Or worse. “And why would I? There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Caine.”

That gets the sharpshooter to shut up — mouth clamping, lips pursing tightly together. He seems to agree, and seems to rather dislike the fact that he does.

The rising sun makes the shadows they cast shift and grow. Grogu eyes it, for a second. “Town is still standing, yes?”

“I-” Mayfeld huffs. “Yes. It didn't fall in the three days you were gone, Mando.”

“It should’ve,” Grogu mutters. The mayor is a joke. He counts the days to a revolution. He might help. Buir was always fond of doing those. “I’ll find something to do there. You can…come with, Vars. Or-”

Vars tilts his head, curiosity overriding his tantrum. “I can stay?”

“If you feel safe enough.” Grogu hesitates. Then, he shrugs. “Eh, yeah. You can take ‘em.”

“In a fight? Pfsh, obviously. Will I have to, though?”

Grogu gives Mayfeld a look. The sharpshooter, for his credit, returns it evenly. 

"Think if we were gonna betray you," Mayfeld harrumphs, "we'd do it while there's two of you?"

"Some people are just stupid, Caine." Grogu narrows his eyes — searching. "Can't rule it out."

The corner of Mayfeld's eyes pinch. He says nothing, other than a quiet mutter of something vaguely like 'karking asshole'. His Song, other than the annoyance, does not falter.

“...No,” Grogu decides, at last. “You shouldn’t have to." He turns his attention to Vars, then — tilting his head. "You’ll stay?”

Vars is still and silent, for a while. Then, he shrugs. “I know my way ‘round a hammer better anyway. I’ll stay, fix the ship. Make some friends.”

“Vars.”

“What? Ever heard of the concept of tomade (allies), brother dearest? They’re great help, y’know. You should try getting some.”

Grogu scowls. “Do you even know how to fix a ship?”

“How hard can it be?”

For the first time in his life, Grogu issues a silent apology to the Crest II. He can almost hear it in his head, whining. 

“Fine,” Grogu says, and it’s barely more than a hiss.

“Fine,” Vars says. He sounds awfully smug. “Oya, Jai’galaar. Happy hunting. ”

Grogu is a bounty hunter. He hunts. It’s the job. 

He’s generally impartial to it — there’s that fulfilling sense of satisfaction at a job well done, and at times there’s that comforting feel that he’s in his element. He is — or was, depending on who you ask — a Mandalorian. Like his father. This is what he’s meant for.

There’s also that low, low tide of anticipation. Every hunt is a step closer to Gideon — every bounty is a practice round. Sometimes, on good days, he gets to pretend that it’s finally Gideon he’s skewering, and that’s fun.

Mainly, though, it involves a lot of waiting, a lot of walking, and too much talking. Mainly, though, he’s irritated at the distraction. Mainly, though, if Grogu could go by without eating anything, he would.

But from his stunts back at the palace — stunts, plural — he’s already weaker than he should be. And though he’ll never admit it to Vars’ face, making his way across the galaxy alone hadn’t been the most pleasant of experiences. He needs credits — he needs food — he needs weapons.

Not in any particular order, although ideally credits come first. He could eat a gun, if he was feeling it. At least once.

“For the record,” says Migs Mayfeld, trekking through the forest a few steps ahead of him. “I think it’d taste like shit.”

Grogu stares at his back. Rather, he glares. “A blaster?”

“Anything with gunpowder. You ever tasted gunpowder before?”

“Yeah. It’s not that bad. Could get me by.” Grogu has never tasted gunpowder before. He goes on to say, “Surprisingly sweet.”

Mayfeld glances briefly back at him, just to show how utterly disgusted the look on his face is. Grogu’s glower deepens.

“You’re messing with me,” Mayfeld guesses, correctly. The bastard’s got a grin on his face soon enough. “Y’know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you didn’t want me around.”

Grogu grits his teeth. “Why would you say that? I love your company.”

“Attaboy.”

Grogu’s fingers twitch to his belt. The only reason he doesn’t take a blaster out to shoot the sharpshooter in the back is because he…doesn’t have one. Which, is a shame, and a problem. The job is meant to fix that.

With Mayfeld tailing him like a damned rancor pup, throwing around ‘gotta keep an eye on you so you don’t run off again’s and ‘stretch my legs, I think I hear my joints popping’s, they’d visited the town once more. Grogu’s not in the bounty hunter’s guild, unfortunately — even if he was, Galaxy's Greatest Bounty Hunter Boba Fett 's massive bounty hunter influence would've changed that.

But he wears Mandalorian armour — people approach him regardless. They also don’t ask, and he doesn’t offer.

This bounty is a bit…different, than most. The horrendous excuse for a mayor, spurred on by some big election event on the horizon, is trying to pretend to be useful to his people for once — it was he who had approached, trailing fidgeting assistants and guards who pretended to be braver than they are, sliding into a seat across from him.

There’s an animal, Grogu’s told through solemn voices, roaming the forest. It’s been wrecking structures, upheaving crops, releasing livestock, other stuff that make it bad for the people who’ve been living here — he wasn’t really listening, and it probably isn’t that important. 

‘I’ve heard of it,’ Mayfeld offers, in the wake of Grogu’s stony silence. ‘Been here a while, hasn’t it? Locals got legends about it.’

‘Legends,’ Grogu had echoed. The mayor had flinched at his voice.

‘Classic ‘misbehave and it’ll getcha’ shtick. For kids.’ Mayfeld had looked amused. He was probably still riding the high of managing to hijack Grogu’s hunting expedition. ‘What, Mandalorians don’t do that?’

No Mandalorian Foundling is that daft. Grogu doesn’t say that, though. He doesn’t say a lot of the things he thinks. 

‘We kill your animal, you pay us.’ It’d been genuine forgetfulness on his part to not inflect his voice in a way to make it sound like a question — then again, probably for the better. He’s exhausted already. 

The mayor agreed immediately. From their own pocket, he said, and Grogu’s ears twitched at the sound of a camera shutter clicking. Dumb politicians and their dumb politics.

“Hang on,” Grogu says, in present-time. He waits until he no longer hears Mayfeld’s less-than-stealthy treks, before reaching a hand out to a nearby tree. It’s unnaturally smooth; the bark torn off. 

No. Scraped off. Like something had brushed against it. Something big.

Mayfeld is by his side. “Huh,” he says, and Grogu knows he sees it too. “First lead we’ve had. Follow it?”

Grogu reaches up to his helmet, flicking through the settings of his HUD. He finds nothing, so eventually dips his chin into a nod.

“Did they say what animal it was?” he remembers to ask, stepping over a tree root. The leaves and mulch crunch underneath his feet. It’s an odd texture. He’s not too fond.

“Nope,” Mayfeld says, popping the ‘p’. There’s a quiet shift, a quiet sliding — as if the sharpshooter had shifted his rifle to his hands. “So are all Mandalorians bounty hunters?”

…huh. Mayfeld’s never asked, before. He’s never asked at all. 

“...why?” Grogu returns, cautiously.

“Curious,” is Mayfeld’s flippant reply. “Your brother didn’t seem like he’s a hunter.”

“He isn’t.” Vars’ comment about allies rings in his head. Grogu gnaws on his bottom lip, for a while, before going, “Mandalorian skills make them good at hunting, and it’s a respected path. ‘S why many go there. Others do…other stuff. Vars makes weapons.”

“No shit?” Mayfeld sounds surprised. Grogu can’t tell if he hadn’t expected Vars to be an armourer, or if he hadn’t expected Grogu to answer. Bit of both, mayhaps. “Wait- So, you’ve got Mandalorian…farmers? Mandalorian fishers? Mandalorian… cloth-weavers?”

“If they wanna.” It’s rather hard to farm and fish on a desert planet though, and ‘cloth-weaving’ is technically under Goran jurisdiction. Unless they weren’t using beskar-enhanced threads, then maybe. 

“Not that many of us left anymore.”

“...Yeah,” Mayfeld agrees, in a voice Grogu can almost imagine being softer. “Missed some tracks by the way.”

Grogu doubles-back, quickly. Mayfeld gestures to some indentions in the mud. Judging by the shape, the animal’s got hooves.

The animal is also, more importantly, massive.

Grogu steps into the tracks and tries not to feel smaller than he usually is. It’s about the size of Mayfeld’s palm. It’ll either be really fun taking down, or really not.

They pick their way through the undergrowth — for a moment, silenced by their discovery. Grogu doesn’t realise the quiet. When he does, he chooses not to think of it as comforting; he’d meant what he said to Vars. He and Mayfeld are not friends.

They aren’t. Grogu loathes the man.

Apparently not fond of the quiet, soon enough, Mayfeld speaks up. “Your brother’s sick, by the way.”

Grogu stops walking. He glances back, eyebrows furrowed. “Huh?”

“Your brother. He’s cool.” Mayfeld walks past him.

“Oh,” Grogu says. Oh, sick in that sense — he’d gotten confused about it. And worried. He hadn’t thought Vars was ill, and that Vars was the type to hide something like that, but still. “I- Thanks, I guess.”

Mayfeld snorts — a sound that’s incredibly and awfully loud, given they’re on a hunt. He’s at least made the effort to walk a bit quieter, but he’s less pressed to the ground than Grogu is. The benefits of being smaller.

“Knows how to hold a conversation, for one.”

“Hey,” Grogu says, and not much else. 

“See?" Mayfeld stands in the silence for another minute, before going, "Hey, would you believe me if I said I didn’t expect you to have a brother? You struck me as the kind to just, yanno, wander off into the galaxy alone, got that ‘don’t touch me or I’ll kill you’ vibe so I-”

Grogu zones him out.

They’ve gone far, far deep into the forest now. The trail is only that of their own making. Grogu can’t see the buildings of town anymore. The afternoon sun isn’t nearly as hot as the ones back at Tatooine, but it feels like afternoon — relative to the morning chill. 

Grogu stops walking by a piece of thorny brambles peeking out from the undergrowth. It looks as if it fought a battle and subsequently lost ; its branches pressed into the ground, its thorns askew, and the rest of it pushed up against a nearby tree like a gesture of surrender.

“Mayfeld,” he calls, and his voice is quiet. The Force rumbles, at him — a warning in its wary pacing. 

“-no damn sense. There, I said it. So you-”

“Mayfeld.”

“Mando?” The sharpshooter turns around, eyebrows lifting at the sight of him a couple distances back. “Oh, jeez- Found somethin’?”

Grogu shifts, stiffly. It’s enough of an answer, and Mayfeld abruptly sobers. 

While Mayfeld works on picking his way back, Grogu’s gaze finds itself drawn to the forest floor — right by his feet.

He stands right dead centre in the middle of hoof tracks. Both of his feet fit comfortably in one.

He swallows, tightly.

Grogu is the first to move past the thorny brambles — Mayfeld following close by. The sharpshooter has finally shut his mouth, and there’s that quiet whine of his rifle. Spurred by the sound, Grogu reaches for his belt; resting a hand against his spear.

The Force is…confusing. The parts closest to him are tense, clicking teeth in warning — like a pointer hound, showing the way forward. The rest, though, are a rumbling, comfortable purr; feels like a deep and true breath of air, the kind that reaches every part of a lung with a satisfying burn.

They come across a clearing with a log at its centre. The Force is purring loudest here, and at the same time bristling the most. Grogu realises, rather belatedly and distantly, that he’s probably the reason for the Force’s warring discontent — that old friend of his torn between helping him and-

And helping the creature.

Behind him, Mayfeld steps on a twig with a quiet crunch.

The log moves . It’s then that Grogu realises-

“-that’s not a log,” he says, out loud, quietly.

“No shit!” Mayfeld screeches. The sharpshooter is stepping back, raising his rifle; his eyes are wide.

Grogu’s feet is frozen to the ground. He can’t move; forced to watch as the not-log peels itself off the forest floor, awakened from its slumber. 

Two legs, then four, pop out from underneath it. A head moves, untucking itself from its chest; branches that Grogu had assumed to be part of the log moving along with it.

It’s an ungulate. 

It’s a deer.

He’s heard that deer were skittish. This one, surprisingly, is not. A pair of eyes, strikingly blue against its brown fur, stare down at him. 

The next pair of eyes it opens is green. The next, then, is a warm shade of amber.

Six eyes, of mismatched colours like that of a stained glass window, take him in.

The Force is all around them — yelping and leaping like an excited massif. It takes him a minute to realise why.

The deer is singing in the Force.

Grogu breathes out a long, slow breath of air. The deer mirrors the motion, and the gust of wind that blows then is almost enough to knock him over.

“Mando…” Mayfeld is saying, with a voice raised up a few octaves. “Hey. Talk to me here.”

Grogu swallows. “‘S okay,” he sighs out, a breathy laugh tacked onto the end. “It’s- It’s okay.”

The deer seemed to share the sentiment — its Song sings in warm, crooning tunes. It shifts, snaking its head in his direction; in the dappled sunlight peeking through the trees, its antlers seem to glow.

Fascinated, Grogu lifts a hand up — palm open and facing forward. It’s as if he were to grab for the Force, and the Deer steps closer to nose at his fingers. One of its eyes is the same size as one of his fingers — it’s a behemoth of a creature and yet, so evidently gentle.

Hello, Grogu begins to Sing. What-

Something rotten, something cruel, in the Force Songs snaps. The Deer flinches back, nicking its nose against his outstretched claws. Grogu catches a glimpse of a dark, earthy shade of green blood beading through that cut.

The Deer tips its head back and roars.

Scrabbling backwards, Grogu trips on his own feet, or on some root, and lands flat on his back with a grunt. He writhes against the mulch and the floor. He’s blind in the face of his panic, he can hear Mayfeld calling for him-

The Deer rears back, kicking at the air with its forelegs. It roars, again, fury and fear in the Force.

Blaster bolts fly over his head. They’re potshots against the Deer’s hide, but the animal flinches. It roars, again, but this time weaker. Its massive forelegs crash against the very earth as it lands, mere inches away from Grogu’s own legs.

The Deer whirls around and bounds through the trees, storming through the undergrowth like they’re blades of grass. The clearing is quiet.

“Shit,” says Mayfeld, breaking that hallowed calm. The sharpshooter’s voice is steady, not shaky, but he breathes a sharp exhale. “Shit. Well, we found it.”

Grogu swallows, tightly. 

“Shit,” Mayfeld says, again. The way his footsteps sound against the fallen leaves and twigs is almost frantic, almost hurried. A second later, Grogu feels a touch to his shoulder. “Hey. Hey, get up, kid. Just a fall. You’re fine.”

Mayfeld is right, for once. He is fine. A terror in his veins, slowly fading, is the worst of his injuries.

Shame bubbles up his throat, moving freely in the empty space left by the terror. Grogu quickly rises to his feet, brushing leaves and dirt off of his armour. 

Mayfeld, at the very least, spared him of more shame by staying on his feet. Other than that light touch, he doesn’t reach out — watches him regain his composure with raised eyebrows and an open expression.

Grogu clears his throat, now brushing at specks of dirt that don’t exist. “‘M fine,” he says, gruffly. 

Mayfeld’s expression shifts, and he now looks very condescending.

It lasts for only a second, though — too quickly for Grogu to turn and snarl or snap. Mayfeld nods. “You’re fine.”

Then; “Anyway, what the hell was that? Huh? We got any answers?”

Grogu has to take a minute to soothe his rising anger — to keep it out of his voice. “What’s what?” he asks, proud of the steadiness and calm in his tone.

Mayfeld gestures, wildly with one hand — the other keeping a firm grip on his rifle. “That,” the sharpshooter says, punctuated by the gesture. “What- It was fine one moment, all fairytale princessy, and then-”

“Fairytale princessy?”

“Tell me Mandalorians at least have stories about fairytale princesses being buddy-buddy pals with the wildlife. Tell me you have that, at least.”

Grogu tilts his head. “Well…no. We’ve got the mythosaur but- Not pals with that one.”

“‘Not pals’-”

“That’s not-” This time, it’s Grogu who gestures, with a wave of his hands and a shake of the head. “The point, though. I know what you mean. I just don’t get what makes it all fairytale princessy. It wasn’t-”

Grogu cuts himself off. Mayfeld’s condescending look makes a comeback.

“Oh.” Grogu drops his arms to his side. His mind replays the last few seconds like a holofilm. He blinks, slowly. “...yeah okay, I see what you mean.”

“Mhm.” A smile quirks the edge of Mayfeld’s lip upwards. The sharpshooter crosses his arms. “What happened? Looked like you were speaking to it.”

Grogu reaches up with a hand, rubbing at the back of his neck through the cowl. He gnaws quietly on his bottom lip, eyebrows furrowing.

“...I tried to,” he says, at last. “Through the Force. But then it got…something must’ve spooked it.”

He doesn’t offer anything else. He doesn’t bring up the foul, dark tunes to the Force. He doesn’t bring up its fear, its anger, felt through the Songs as keenly as if it were his own. Emotions that were his own.

He does not bring up his rotten Song. He hasn’t brought it up to anybody, and he wasn’t about to start now.

Slowly, Grogu moves his hand to rest above his cuirass. He presses down, as if he could reach past the beskar — reach past blood and bone, muscle and sinew — to grab hold of his own thunderous heart. 

He’d nicked it. The Deer. It’s bleeding, now.

Mayfeld is staring in the direction of where the beast had ran in. He’s biting the inside of his cheek.

“Hide didn’t break when I shot it,” Mayfeld mutters, lowly. “Gonna be harder than we thought. Need something stronger than bolts.”

Grogu cocks his head to the side; thinking. He unclips his spear from his belt. “What about this?”

“What’s that?”

He clicks the button, and the spear grows. The butt end of it thuds quietly against the forest floor. Mayfeld’s eyes widen.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah, no, that’ll probably do it. Strongest metal in the galaxy, right?”

“Right.”

“Right.” Mayfeld’s got a grin to his eyes, now — a smirk on his face. Humourously pleased. “Just our luck you’re a Mandalorian. Lead the way, uh… ’Jay-guh-ler’?”

Grogu sputters, and he huffs a laugh, utterly surprised. “What?”

“It’s- I dunno, the thing your brother called you earlier.” They begin to cross the clearing, following the Deer’s trail — Mayfeld taps at the temple of his forehead with a finger, eyebrows raised. “Don’t think I didn’t hear.”

“Apparently you didn’t. It’s Jai’galaar,” Grogu says the word slowly — enunciating each syllable. He turns away from the sight of Mayfeld quietly mouthing it to himself. “And before you ask, it’s not a name.”

“It isn’t?” Mayfeld sounds horribly disappointed. “What is it, then?”

“A title.”

“...huh. In Mando-speak.”

“Mando’a.”

“Right. What’s it mean?”

Grogu shrinks his spear and clips it back onto his belt. “Shriek-hawk.”

It’s a nice feeling, when Mayfeld whistles appreciatively. Something like pride, something like warmth. It’s quite similar to how the Force had felt, back before the Deer got spooked — fuzzy and comfortable, like a crooning purr.

It’s…a shame, that they have to kill it. The animal’s really just minding its own business — he wouldn’t be surprised if it were simply drawn to the life, the Songs, of the town. A simple curiosity, a desire to be closer, and that was all it’d ever been. 

“Your brother’s a good influence.”

“What do you mean?”

“My questions.” Mayfeld snorts, softly. “You’ve actually been answering them.”

The nice feeling dissipates, like morning dew.

“You’ve never asked,” Grogu retorts. It sounds weak, even to him — full of excuses he doesn’t believe.

Mayfeld gives him a raised eyebrow look. He’s still chuckling, but it sounds almost strained. “Would you believe me if I said I was worried I’d chase you off?”

Grogu would’ve. He would’ve because he could see it happening. He would’ve because Mayfeld was right. He would’ve because he knows that he would’ve ran. 

He’s always been fond of it.

Grogu would’ve, and so he does not say anything, and Mayfeld lets the silence keep. They track the Deer through the woods — following tracks, pointing out scrapes and scratches in the barks of the trees, and listening out for the occasional roar or crash.

“What’d you mean by that, by the way?” Mayfeld asks, at some point. Using the nozzle of his rifle, he pokes curiously at a bush. “What you said back at the base.”

Grogu does not pull away from his quiet examining of tracks.

“It was something like…’our secrecy is our survival’? Why’s that?”

He rises to his feet. Without looking back, Grogu keeps walking.

“Hey.” Mayfeld sounds surprised. “Hey,” he says, again, and sounds annoyed. “Don’t shut me off now kiddo. We were finally getting somewhere.”

“What did you think was going to happen?” Grogu stops, abruptly. He wants to turn and only just about catches himself in time — he makes himself keep walking. Through gritted teeth and a hiss, he says, “We’re not friends, Migs Mayfeld. Stop acting like we are.”

Mayfeld’s surprised silence is punctuated by the lack of his footsteps. Grogu stops walking — he turns his head around, just enough to see through narrowed eyes, the way the sharpshooter has stopped still in his surprise.

Mayfeld sniffs. “Ouch,” he says, and almost sounds genuinely hurt. 

“K’atini (suck it up),” Grogu says, without thinking. He twitches and resists the urge to slap himself.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

Mayfeld squints at him. “Right,” he says. Then, “Call me crazy, but I think you might be lying a little.”

Grogu turns away. “You’re crazy.”

They go back to tracking the Deer. Or, at least, Grogu’s tracking it, and Mayfeld is hanging around being distracting with that Song of his. It bubbles and boils but never quite breaks the surface, like an itch Grogu can’t catch.

“We’re not actually hunting this thing?”

Grogu shoots the sharpshooter a low, foul look, and is met with an expression of utter sincerity — eyes that blink and stare at him, waiting. 

Grogu stops walking. Very slowly, he says, “...Yes, Mayfeld. We are.”

“Oh.” Mayfeld blinks, again. “I thought we were gonna pretend we lost it, or somethin’. Seemed like the guy was just tryna mind his business. You sure you wanna kill it?”

“I-” Grogu frowns. Discomfort gnaws at his veins, brought on especially by the fact that he had been thinking about it, until that very moment. He doesn’t ‘want’ to kill the animal, but-

“It’s the job, Mayfeld. I have to.”

“Y’know technically,” Mayfeld is quick to say, “the job said to get rid of it.”

“And killing it,” Grogu retorts, rather testily, “is the best and quickest way to do so.”

“To you, maybe, Mister ‘I’m-Covered-In-The-Strongest-Metal-In-The-Galaxy’,” Mayfeld huffs. In the silence of Grogu’s surprise, he quickly continues, “Look. I’m just saying, there are alternatives. And I think you know that. And I think you’ve been thinking the same.”

Grogu turns around. “Really?” he drawls, crossing his arms. “And what makes you say that?”

“‘Cause we’ve been following the same set of tracks for the past five minutes in a circle.” Mayfeld mirrors his posture — crossing his arms over his chest. He cocks his head to the side. “But you knew that already.”

Grogu’s jaw tightens, and his teeth quietly gnash together.

…what?

As subtly as he can, he tries to look at the tracks he’d been following — turning around and pretending that it’s because he’s sick of looking at the sharpshooter, and not because he’s frantically checking their surroundings. Every familiar branch and bush feels like a stab to his chest — oh, how mortifying.

He hadn’t known, actually. He really hadn’t. It must’ve slipped his attention, somehow — his focus wavering.

“How about we just,” Mayfeld suggests, drawing him from the beginnings of a downward spiral and back to the present, “take a breather, eh? We’ve got daylight to kill.”

Grogu huffs. “A breather,” he echoes, like a bitter mutter. “This sounds familiar.”

“It does, doesn’t it? But this time,” Mayfeld moves past him, waggling his finger, “we keep the galavanting off to a minimum. How’s about it?”

Grogu hesitates. Mayfeld twists around and starts walking backwards — smoothly stepping over roots and around bushes. How many times had they been in this exact spot, exactly?

“Kid,” the sharpshooter sighs. “It’s five minutes. Come on. My legs are killing me. Five minutes and you can go back to trying to kill the big, stupid deer.”

“If,” Mayfeld adds, quickly — his eyebrows lift, “you still wanna do that, that is.”

Grogu’s gaze falls, to the ground. They land on those tracks that he’d been following — now that he’s looking, he can see the quiet indentations of his own footprints in the mud and mulch, and see how they litter, easily overpowering the Deer’s hoofprints.

“...fine,” he sighs out, at last. Grogu starts trailing after Mayfeld. “Five minutes.”

The sharpshooter shoots him a sharp grin. Grogu scowls.

Mayfeld wanders over to a tree, with roots large and high enough out of the ground to sit on. With a huff, the sharpshooter does, leaning against the trunk with an expression of utter bliss.

“Ah,” he stretches out his legs, and sighs, “that’s better.”

Grogu can’t help but snort at him, softly shaking his head. “Joint problems, old man?”

“Shut up.” Mayfeld’s got his eyes shut. “You don’t know what it’s like, alright? You’re all- All springy and sproingy. And young.”

Grogu huffs. He sits on the ground, curling his knees to his chest. The words, scathing rebukes, die on his tongue, and he doesn’t say anything else.

The silence…doesn’t quite stretch. It’s there, but it’s almost…comfortable. The forest is quiet, but not silent — alive, still, with signs of life. It is alive, and so are they — at this moment, they simply are. 

It’s…nice.

“Hey,” Mayfeld says, and utterly shatters that sentiment. “How old are you? Like, actually.”

Very slowly, very resignedly, Grogu drags his gaze back over to the sharpshooter. He doesn’t move otherwise, leaving Mayfeld to shift and sit up — peering at his visor.

“Kid. Hey. Hey, Mando.” Mayfeld waits for all of a second, before pitching his voice up obnoxiously. “Maaaaandoooo. Mando. Mando. Kid. Hey. Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey-”

“Oh my god-” Grogu whips his head to the side, sharply. “What.”

“How old are you?”

“Eighty.”

“Karking liar.” Mayfeld leans back, waving him off. “I mean actually. Be honest. How old are you?”

Irritation sparks in his chest, his veins. Grogu grits his teeth. “What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t,” Mayfeld says, quickly and flippantly — taking him by surprise. In the silence, the sharpshooter says, “It’s not about that though. You were right earlier. I don’t know you.”

Very slowly, Grogu curls the fingers of a hand into a fist. “So?”

“So. I’d like to change that. I want to get to know you.”

“Why?” Grogu shifts. He puts weight on his feet — ready to spring up at a moment’s notice. “For what reason?”

Mayfeld slowly tilts his head to the side. His features shift, shuffling into an expression of…

…is that pity?

“Jeez,” Mayfeld mutters. His eyebrows are furrowed, and he, very obviously, gives Grogu a full look-over. “You’re messed up.”

“I’m not-”

“You are. Look, is it so hard to believe that I just, I dunno, like you?”

Grogu’s silence, born out of shock, is an answer in and of itself.

Mayfeld shakes his head at him. He almost looks sorrowful, almost pained.

(And Grogu says ‘almost’, because he cannot stand to say that it was just those things.)

“Sometimes,” Mayfeld begins, and Grogu cannot stand the genuine patience in his voice — would’ve hated it less if it had been a joke, or a sneer, or anything less real. “Sometimes, people in the galaxy meet. And, sometimes, rarely, they take a liking to each other.”

Grogu would hate this less if it weren’t so damn gentle.

“Now, see, when this happens, usually they try to get to know each other. And…” Mayfeld spreads his arms, palms facing upward and outward. “That’s it! Crazy, I know, but there’s no ulterior motive, and there’s no long run, and that’s it.”

Grogu would hate this less if it-

“I know what friends are,” he mutters. He pulls his knees closer against his chest, squeezing into a smaller space. “I’ve had them before.”

“But you don’t think you deserve them.” Mayfeld cocks an eyebrow at yet another one of Grogu’s silences. “Hm.”

Quietly, because if he tries to be louder he feels he will shatter, Grogu sputters. “I- You- You can’t ‘hm’ me. I’m the one who does the humming. And don’t act like you know what I’m feeling. You don’t. You- you can’t.”

Through the thickness of his voice, the tightness of his throat, Grogu forces himself to say, “You don’t know what I’m feeling. You can’t possibly.”

Something quiet in Mayfeld’s eyes falls. It doesn’t quite look like he understands — doesn’t quite look like a revelation has just been dropped onto his lap, and that he suddenly knows it all.

Rather, it looks like something he had been guessing had simply been confirmed. And that here Grogu was, living proof in some shape or form — evidence of a tragedy, of what’s left behind.

“I don’t know,” Mayfeld admits, quietly. Then, the sharpshooter shrugs, and looks away — staring at the forest floor, almost ruefully. “I get the feeling, though. Like you’re all…rotten and foul on the inside. Thinking that you don’t deserve people to watch your back.”

Grogu blinks. He blinks again, and again, and again. “...you get it.”

“Yeah. I do.”

“You?” Grogu shifts, marginally straightening up his spine. “You- you have a- a crew. Vhel and Dran and Bins. They’re all fiercely loyal to you. They like you.”

“Well of course they do. I’m a karking treat to be around.” Despite being a treat, Mayfeld draws his knees up and into his chest — gnawing quietly on the inside of his cheek. The silence isn’t long, but it isn’t brief either, and when the sharpshooter finally does speak, it’s quiet and to the forest floor, “But that wasn’t always the case. I wasn’t always Gods’ Gift to ye merry folk, y’know? I was-”

Mayfeld breathes out, sharp. He looks up — staring into Grogu’s visor as if the sharpshooter could see the face underneath. 

He says, quietly, like a confession done before, “I joined the Empire, kid. It’s a damn challenge to sink much lower.”

Grogu blinks, slowly. Something sorrowful gnaws at the bones of his ribcage. “That…that was a long time ago, though.”

“Yeah?” Mayfeld cocks an eyebrow. “But you’re still hunting them.”

Heedless of the weight of their conversation, the forest goes on. Heedless of the silence, heavy and damning, life breathes. He wants to curse at it — how could you not be aware? Of the vastness of this silence?

“...all I’m saying,” Mayfeld says, at last. The quiet of his voice doesn’t break the silence — rather it makes room alongside it. Coexisting. “Is that the galaxy is a big place. And, sometimes, it gets pretty lonely. Y’know?”

Grogu looks away. He stares at the forest floor —There’s a small bug carrying a leaf much bigger than it is — it wobbles, precariously, with each and every step and yet stubbornly pushes on.

“Yeah,” Grogu says, softly. “I know.”

The small bug disappears underneath the dirt and a root. It brought its leaf with it.

The quiet coexists, with them.

“...seventy-seven.”

Mayfeld blinks. “What’s that?”

“My age.” Grogu taps a finger on his leg — a small fidget. “I’m seventy-seven. I just say eighty out of, y’know, convenience. Seventy-seven isn’t a fun number.”

Through the corner of his eye, Grogu watches the way Mayfeld’s eyebrows furrow. The sharpshooter looks confused, then disbelieving, then annoyed.

Then, back to confused.

“...you’re messing with me.”

Grogu pulls a face. He looks up, meeting Mayfeld’s gaze squarely through the visor — unfaltering and unwavering.

“You are. You’re messing with me,” Mayfeld says, again. His eyes are widening slowly. “You- You’re not serious?”

Grogu’s silences have been pretty telling, these past few minutes. This one isn’t any different.

“I-” Mayfeld’s jaw drops. “Wh- Really? How- Why?”

…why?

Grogu huffs. “Well, you see. Sometimes, when people like each other, in a different way than some other people do, they-”

“You are not about to explain the miracle of life to me.”

“You asked.” Grogu wrinkles his nose up — pulling a face. “How old did you think I was?”

“Like- eighteen? Twenty at most.”

“If I was twenty I’d be,” Grogu holds his hands out, palms facing each other, a small distance apart. It’s as if he were holding onto an invisible loaf of bread. “This big? A baby, still. No thanks.”

“What? No. No. ” Mayfeld looks disturbed. “Why?”

Grogu rests his hands on his stomach. He shrugs. “Species age differently.”

“It’s a species thing? Like, Mandalorian?” Mayfeld’s eyes widen. “If you’re eighty and that small then how old is your brother-”

“Mandalorian isn’t a species, sharpshooter.” Grogu shoots him a low look. He huffs. “Vars mentioned a creed before. Weren’t you listening?”

“Not really.” 

“Oh.” And here Grogu thought the sharpshooter had been so curious. Maybe it was more of a small-talk thing, instead of an intel thing. How peculiar.

Quickly, Mayfeld says, “You gotta cut me some slack for not knowing, though. You’re only the second Mandalorian I’ve ever met in my life. There aren’t a ton of you around.”

Grogu feels the way his own expression pinches, underneath the helmet. He turns his head away, staring out into the forest — the trees and the way the shadows shift with the swaying of the canopy of leaves.

“No,” he says, at last. “There aren’t.”

The silence that follows is…heavy, ruthless — choking down his throat. Grogu swallows and feels as if he’s only suffocating further, twitches and feels he’s only sinking underneath that tide.

“You asked,” Grogu says, softly — when he thinks the silence will drive him mad, the grief given to him by his father and his friends and his family, like an heirloom, like a promise, “you asked what I meant. ‘Our secrecy is our survival, our survival is our strength’.”

Mayfeld doesn’t say anything. When Grogu turns his head back around to look, the sharpshooter is staring at him — patiently, which isn’t something Grogu thought was possible. Surprises truly are everywhere.

“I’m,” Grogu pauses for a breath — for strength, “not the only Mandalorian to hate the Empire. And the reason for that is the same reason why there aren’t many of us left.”

Very subtly, Mayfeld’s expression shifts — he looks as if everything had just suddenly clicked. “Oh.”

“...Hm.”  

“Oh,” Mayfeld says, after a while, again. His expression shifts once more, and now the sharpshooter just looks…uncomfortable? As if he’s suddenly presented with an idea, a concept or an emotion that he doesn’t quite know what to do with. The premise is so familiar to Grogu that he can’t help the low thrum of sympathy. “Yeowch.”

Grogu stares at him. Mayfeld winces — he bites on his lip, discomfort mounting and leaking into his Song, until the notes thrum and sing and wail with those tunes.

“...’yeowch’.”

“Well what’d ya- What do you want me to say to that?!”

“Not ‘yeowch’.” Grogu snorts, shoulders shaking. It’s with a laugh in the undercurrent of his words does he say, “Anything other than a ‘yeowch’.”

Mayfeld blinks, a couple of times — a surprised glint to his eyes. Like dew, it melts — shifts into an almost-warmth, an annoyance for the sake of show. “Oh yeah, laugh it up,” he harrumphs, and a tension seeps out of his shoulders. “You were the one who dropped that onto me.”

“You asked!"

“And I wasn’t expecting you to karking answer!” Mayfeld gestures vaguely at him, hands flapping and fingers mere centimetres away from colliding with his helmet — as if the sharpshooter isn’t sure whether to slap him or choke him. “Sure I ask. I do that all the time.”

“Not to me. You’ve never asked before today.”

“Because I wasn’t boutta chase you off! You Mandalorians are notoriously skittish-”

“ ‘Skittish’ -!”

“I said what I said.” Mayfeld crosses his arms, tilting his chin up — a challenge. “Skittish. That’s what you lot are. Other than Vars, but he’s an outlier.”

“Right. What, he’s the-” Grogu cocks his head. “Third-ever Mandalorian, right? Careful, sharpshooter, you’re starting up a collection.”

“I am, am I?” Mayfeld snorts. “Worst collection in the galaxy ever. Oh, why wouldn’t I want a gaggle of sharp and pointy Mandos who don’t even answer my questions and like to stare at me? As if I’m the novelty.”

“If it makes you feel better, I think there’s nothing novel about you.”

Mayfeld swipes at him, half-heartedly. “I take it back. I take it back. I liked it when you didn’t talk.”

“Yeowch.”

“Yeah. Yeowch it up.” Mayfeld crosses his arms again and smugly tilts his chin up, as if he’s won the argument. “This thing we’ve got going? This conversation? It’s new ground for the both of us, alright? Keep an open head about it.”

“Oh? What, the Mandalorian who came before me didn’t butter you up?”

“You’d believe me if I said that guy was an even worse conversationalist?” Mayfeld snorts, softly — he shakes his head. “Then again, I did stab him in the back the first time we met.”

“Bastard.”

“Mhm. If it makes you feel better, it didn’t work.” Something bitter, something amused, something rueful all flicker across the sharpshooter’s face just then — brought onto some old memory. Mayfeld huffs another snort; softer, and quieter. “He proved every legend I’ve ever heard. If you’re a fairytale princess, he’s the knight in shining armour.”

“I’m not a knight in shining armour?” Grogu frowns. He’s literally got the armour. “You sure?”

“I mean, not as much as he was.”

Grogu crosses his arms. Softly, he harrumphs. “You know, the concept of ‘more Mandalorian’ died out a couple years ago. You can’t goad me, it won’t work.”

Mayfeld pulls a face; cocking up an eyebrow. “Wasn’t trying to. I guess that just means you really were goaded, huh? You’ve got Mando jealousy?”

Grogu kicks at him. Unlike Mayfeld’s swipe, it connects — the sharpshooter jolts forward, grabbing at his shin.

“Ow!”

“I could kill you for that.”

“You could kill me for a lot of things.” Mayfeld rubs at his leg with a pained grimace. He huffs, shooting Grogu a low look. “Listen, you may be my favourite Mando-”

“Ew.”

“-At this moment, but the other guy?” Using the hand rubbing at his leg, Mayfeld gestures. “Whole other league. I mentioned trying to stab him in the back?”

Grogu hesitates. He dips his chin into a nod.

“Yeah, he kicked my ass into a pulp. Threw me into a new republic prison just because it was convenient, don’t ask,” Mayfeld adds, before Grogu could ask, “and then broke me out of there. It’s the only reason I’m here.”

“If your tales were any taller, sharpshooter, they’d topple.”

“It’s the truth! Swear on it. Swear it on- on anything. On my life.” Mayfeld rests a hand on his chest, over his heart — some gesture of taking an oath, probably. “Granted, I was useful. I knew my way around an Imperial base. Afterwards, he let me go, and Migs Mayfeld has been dead ever since.”

Oh? Grogu shifts, subtly sitting up. “Really?”

“Yep.” Drawn away by his own memories, Mayfeld’s eyes grow hazy and unfocused. Then, briefly, they sharpen — Mayfeld smirks at him. “But I thought you didn’t wanna hear the story of Morak.”

Grogu blinks. Slowly, as the realisation sinks in, his jaw drops. “That’s Morak? You didn’t tell me-”

“Not for lack of trying.”

Again, Grogu kicks at him — Mayfeld wisens up and angles his legs away from Grogu’s reach. 

Grogu mutters, mostly to himself, “Though I guess I can see a Mandalorian blowing up a rhydonium refinery. Doesn’t even have to be Imperial.”

“Huh?”

“Big boom. It’s fun.” Grogu had fun, blowing up the rhydonium truck, so he can only imagine what a whole refinery would’ve felt like. Think of the shrapnel from that explosion.

Hm. On second thought, maybe not so fun.

“Ah.” Mayfeld pulls a face. “Fair. But to set the record straight, I’ll have you know that it was me who blew up the refinery. My Mandalorian friend just kinda stood there while it happened. He passed me the gun.”

“You blew up a rhydonium refinery with a gun.”

“What can I say? Big boom.”

“Your tale is swaying, Mayfeld. I think it’s about to fall.”

“Oh, psfh-” Mayfeld waves him off, rolling his eyes. “Can’t you like, check? Aren’t you some sort of living lie detector or something? You know I’m telling the truth.”

Grogu blinks at him, slowly. A frown pulls at his lips.

The sharpshooter is right. Throughout it all, nothing glaring had stood out from his symphony — throughout it all, there has been nothing dishonest, nothing sneaky. As far as Grogu can tell, he’s telling the truth.

Grogu hesitates, turning the melody over in his head a couple times — just to be sure. Finally, he huffs. “Fine. If you must sing this Mandalorian’s praises so badly.”

“Is that an invitation? I couldn’t hear it over all your jealousy.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“Sounds like what someone jealous would say.”

“I’ll kill you.”

“You wouldn’t. You love me.” Mayfeld grins at him — full of teeth, like a loth wolf. It reminds him of Vars, suddenly and painfully, and for a moment Grogu cannot help the low, genuine huff of a chuckle.

“Sometimes,” Mayfeld goes on to say, “sometimes, I think I dreamt him up. That I probably, I dunno, hallucinated the whole ordeal. What’s more believable? That the jungles of Morak messed with my head or that a Mandalorian captain or some shit set me free.”

“Captain?”

“He had a mark,” Mayfeld taps on his right shoulder, “on his armour. Looked sick. Assumed it was probably a rank insignia? It wasn’t there the first time we saw each other, only the second.”

Grogu frowns. A rank insignia? It must’ve been a very old Mandalorian, then — the only people Grogu knows to have rank insignias on their armour is Al’verde, and the Mandalorians who made it from before the Purge.

Or, alternatively, it’s a very young Mandalorian who thought the mark looked cool and painted it on his armour for funsies.

“Not young,” Mayfeld offers. “I could tell you that much. About my age, maybe a bit older? Acted like he was anyway.”

Grogu huffs, softly. He crosses his arms. “Really full of critical info, aren’t you, sharpshooter? The most specific of details.”

“Oh shut it.” Mayfeld kicks at him again, scuffing up the fallen leaves and the mulch and the dirt with his boot. As he leans back, a quiet glint enters his eyes — his Song. Mayfeld pulls a thoughtful face.

“It looked like yours, actually. Now that I’m looking.” 

Grogu feels himself go still.

“...what?”

“The insignia, I mean. Looked a lot like how yours does.” Flippantly, almost dismissively, Mayfeld gestures to Grogu’s pauldron, to his-

His signet.

The sharpshooter was still talking — though, by now, the words fall onto Grogu’s deaf ears. His mind begins piecing together a puzzle, a picture, and every time something slots into place, Grogu thinks he stops breathing some more.

“-not even listening. Mando! Hey, dumbass!”

Grogu swallows, tightly. 

“Mayfeld,” he feels himself say — his tongue moving almost of his own accord. Surely, it must be, he thinks — his words are steadier than he could possibly be. “The Mandalorian. Describe him to me.”

Mayfeld blinks. “Huh? What, you knew him?”

Grogu doesn’t say anything, doesn’t trust himself to say anything, doesn’t trust himself not to-

Eventually, Mayfeld relents. “Well, he was…humanoid. Taller than me. Never took the helmet off. Shiny. Like, really shiny. He didn’t have any of…of your colours. Uhm-”

“His,” Grogu swallows, against the quiet break of his voice, “his signet?”

Mayfeld blinks, again. “Signet?”

“The- the mark, Mayfeld. On his shoulder.” Fueled by some emotion too vast for him to understand quite yet, Grogu reaches up and unclasps his pauldron from his shoulder. He holds it out and it’s exactly the same as if he’d reached into his chest and tore his heart out from his ribs.

Feels like it, too.

Mayfeld’s brow furrows, but he leans forward and takes in the signet.

And then, the furrow in his brow growing, he nods.

“Uh- Yeah. Wait- Yeah, that’s exactly it. A spitting image.”

…when Grogu comes to again, his head is still ringing. The forest is too loud. Mayfeld’s voice is too quiet, words muffled. 

His hands are cupped around nothing. Mayfeld’s picked his pauldron up, now, though not to take — just to get a better look, apparently. Not that he was doing much of that, for his eyes are glued to Grogu’s visor.

Grogu’s fingers twitch. They curl into fists.

“-do-?”

He drops his hands. His claws dig into the mulch and the dirt.

“Kid-”

A snap near his head violently shoves him back to the present. Grogu flinches away from it as if it were a gunshot.

Mayfeld’s squinting at him now. His lip twists to something between a nervous sneer and a frown. 

“You wanna tell me what a signet is?” The sharpshooter leans back. He’s still got Grogu’s pauldron balanced on the palm of his hand. Mayfeld sounds like he’s trying for lightheartedness. Mayfeld sounds like he’s failed. “Or am I gonna have to ask your brother ‘bout it?”

Grogu stares at him, for a while. His lips are slightly parted, jaw slightly agape. It’s baffling — Mayfeld acts as if the whole damn galaxy hadn’t just…

… stopped.

“A signet,” Grogu says, with words that he does not feel, “‘s the symbol of a clan.”

A beat passes.

“A karking what.”

Mayfeld’s Song, despite the question, sounds like he knows well enough what it means.

The sharpshooter suddenly stands. The pauldron goes tumbling off his palm, and Grogu moves to catch it out of instinct. He barely just does.

“So you’re- Shit.” Mayfeld takes half a step back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean- Wait, hold on. Hang on. No- Come on. You’re-”

Grogu is too preoccupied with watching the way the dappled sunlight shines against the mudhorn; he doesn’t see it, when it all clicks in place for Mayfeld.

“Oh my kark are you the little green guy?”

Grogu winces. Oh, that is uncomfortable.

"You are! Oh kark you are-"

…wait.

“You’ve met me,” Grogu says, more to Mayfeld’s boots than anything. He brings the pauldron to his lap. His voice is quiet. “You’ve met me, before…”

He can’t even finish that sentence, words trailing off into the quiet of the woods. The leaves are still rustling. The animals are still calling. The galaxy goes on.

And Grogu cannot help but feel like he’s being left behind.

Mayfeld is pacing, now. He’s stepped away, over the roots, to a large enough empty space that lets him go step, step, step, turn. It sounds like he’s drawing his hand over his face, hissing and sniffing, thoughts loud enough to near be cacophonous. 

And then, inexplicably, Mayfeld barks out a laugh. His pacing comes to an abrupt halt.

“You’re not messing with me, are you?”

Grogu slowly lifts his visor up. He stares at the sharpshooter. He says nothing.

After a while, Mayfeld turns and starts pacing again. Now that Grogu’s looking, he can see the wide grin Mayfeld is unsuccessfully trying to hide under his hand. His snickering is growing louder.

If Grogu weren’t so shocked, he’d probably be offended.

“What’re the odds-” Mayfeld stops. His snickers grow into small laughs, and he bends forward at the waist, hands wrapped around his stomach. He’s grinning, and as he glances up at Grogu, that grin only grows. “Hah! Oh, man! Oh, gods it’s starting to click- The Razor Crest, the whole of- of everything! Gods! What’re the odds?”

Grogu wordlessly fits his pauldron back into its slot. The click is something he feels like thunder in his heart.

“You knew him,” Grogu says, quietly, as if speaking the truth would make it…less real? More real? He’s not sure what he quite wants, at the moment. The Force wails in low, crooning warbles. 

His own grief feels like it’d like to wail. Instead, it bubbles in his chest, and stays put. Instead, he feels, it chokes him.

Mayfeld strides back over and plops down where he sat before. He crosses his legs, bracing his hands on his knees, and leans forward. He’s grinning, still. It looks somehow wider. “Knew him? Eh. I met him, but yeah- Your old man saved my life! Can’t believe it- All this time and-”

Suddenly, Mayfeld barks out another, loud laugh and raises his hand to gesture at him — Grogu resists the urge to flinch. 

“You know, last I saw him- Which was karking Morak, by the way, again what are the odds- Anyway, last I saw him, they told me he was looking for you! And look!” Mayfeld gestures at him again, looking, for all the world, to be the happiest man alive. “Looks like it all worked out, eh? Eh?”

It’s too much, suddenly.

Grogu stands. His shoulders are drawn up and tight. His claws dig into the palms of his hands, through the gloves. He steps around the roots of the tree and starts walking away.

Behind him, Mayfeld makes a rather undignified, confused squawk. “Hey- What? Mando, come on! Is it something I said-? Where are you going?”

Grogu reaches up, cycling through the modes of his visor. He sweeps the forest floor for tracks. The focus of the hunt struggles to stifle the bubbling of his emotion, but it has had plenty of practice to do so — thus, it does.

“Kid.” Mayfeld sounds closer. Now, he sounds upset. His feet scuff up the fallen leaves and twigs as he steps closer. “Hey- Talk to me. Y’know, I don’t think your dad would quite like the way you’re being such an-”

Mayfeld shuts up abruptly, eyes blowing wide. 

The tip of Grogu’s spear pokes against his throat.

“Do not,” Grogu seethes, every word one wretched snarl of its own, “try to tell me what he would’ve wanted.”

Mayfeld, his hands half-raised up in a gesture of surrender, blinks.

And this time, Grogu is there to see how it all clicks again.

There dawns a slow horror, in both the sharpshooter’s Song, and in the pit of Grogu’s stomach. Horror, and dread — cold, like a corpse.

“...no.”

Mayfeld’s voice is small. Afraid, almost, but not of him, and not of the spear. The sharpshooter stares down at him, his eyes growing steadily wider. It’s like he’s pleading for Grogu to explain that this was all just some sick, cruel joke.

Grogu’s grip on the spear tightens.

Mayfeld draws in a sharp breath. “No,” he says again. “I- No, no way. You- No. No. No.”

A pause. The truth makes itself known in the ugly silence

“... how?”

Grogu’s struck with the sudden, rather intense urge to drive his spear through the sharpshooter’s skull. He bites down on that urge, and on his tongue — slowly, he pulls his hand back. The tip of his spear brushes against the dirt.

The words catch on his tongue. When Grogu swallows, it feels an awful lot like he’s choking.

“...it’s got something to do with the guy you’re hunting?” Mayfeld guesses, when the silence stretches for a second, two, three too long. Slowly, Mayfeld lowers his hands back to his sides. “Moff Gideon?”

Grogu tastes his own blood. It takes him a moment to realise he’s biting on his tongue.

“...yes.” Again, it’s suddenly too much. He turns away. He pretends he’s speaking to the woods when he says, “Killed.”

“So this is revenge.” Mayfeld sounds as if he’s been struck with a realisation. “Oh, kark.”

It doesn’t sound like a good realisation.

But what does Grogu care? He doesn’t — he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t care about that. He shouldn’t — doesn’t — care about Migs Mayfeld.  

He knows better. Oh, he knows better.

When Grogu starts walking again, back into the depths of the woods, back to tracking, Mayfeld doesn’t call out to him immediately. Neither does he move, or makes any inclination to help. Neither does he leave, and at the very least rips that bandage off, and at the very least gives him that space to focus.

Grogu’s thoughts are loud enough. He doesn’t need Mayfeld’s noisy Song to pair with it.

Grogu shoves it to the side, and focuses on the here, and the now.

…he picks up tracks, barely discernable underneath all that heavy traffic. But it leads away, a trail that he’s sure he has not yet walked. It’s a start. Grogu retracts his spear and clicks it back onto his belt.

“Kid-” Mayfeld seems to realise he’s about to get left behind. Grogu can hear, once again, the sound of his boots against the forest floor. “Where are you going?”

Isn’t it obvious. “Going to get the job done.”

“What?” Mayfeld keeps trailing behind him. His voice turns flat around the edges. “How?”

“How do you think?” Grogu spits back, through gritted teeth. “I’m going to kill it.”

“Woah, wait-” Mayfeld jogs to catch up. Then, the sharpshooter is standing in front of him, and blocking his path. He’s half-lifted his hands up again. “Let’s not be hasty-”

“‘Hasty’?” Grogu stops. He snarls. “I’ve wasted enough time entertaining you. Gods, if you weren’t useful to me-”

Mayfeld reels back, at that. His brow furrows.

For a second, he looks hurt.

Then, his expression shifts. His Song warps. Then, Mayfeld looks mad . 

“Are you being karking serious?” The sharpshooter curls his lip. “After everything we’ve been through-”

“I do not give a damn about what you want.” Grogu rests a hand on his chest. “But I have a job to do. So, step aside, Caine.”

“Like hell I will-”

“You-”

“I’ve spent these past few months tiptoeing around you,” Mayfeld lifts up a finger, cutting him off, “not sure of what’s too much to push and what’s something you need to talk about-”

“I don’t-”

“Godsdamnit I am trying to help you-!”

“I don’t need your HELP!” Grogu shoves past him, back on the trail. With how loudly he’s storming, how viciously he’s seething, however, the Deer would probably hear him from miles away. 

“That’s bantha shit!” Mayfeld hollers from behind him, stubbornly. “You’ll kill yourself like this!”

“Fine!” Grogu fires back, and means every word. “So be it!”

“Don’t say that!”

“Why do you care?” Grogu whirls around. He ignores the way his voice breaks at that very last word. He asks, again, damn it all, “Why do you care…?”

Mayfeld stops. A million different expression flashes through his eyes. A million different melodies make their home in his Song. It’s as indiscernible as it is overwhelming — everything as well as it is nothing. For a moment, and then two, the sharpshooter says…nothing.

“Because-” Mayfeld stops. “Because- ‘Cause I-”

He hisses, frustratedly, and says, “Listen, he wouldn’t have-”

Grogu turns away. “I’m done.”

“You know he wouldn’t!”

“I don’t know! I don’t know anything about him.” It’s as much as a retort as an admission of sin — dreaded words slipping through his teeth, grief masked as anger masked as indifference. Grogu follows the tracks, so much emotion in his body then it feels like he’s about seconds from exploding. “I don’t know anything about him because he’s gone.”

And for one final time, Grogu whirls around. He faces the sharpshooter, stance wide as if in battle — teeth and claws bared as if such as well.

“But what I do know? Is that my father,” Grogu spits, and in another life, it’d have been a wail, “did not die for me to feel bad about doing my job. I’m going to kill that animal. I’m going to get paid. I’m going to hunt down Moff Gideon.”

Grogu draws in a shuddering, rattling breath.

“With, or without your help.”

The forest…cares not, for the roaring in Grogu’s blood and ears. Leaves rustle still. Animals warble. Time does not stop.

But Mayfeld does. For a long, long time, Mayfeld stops, and just stares at him. 

Grogu will not put a name to the expression on the sharpshooter’s face, nor the look in his eyes. He’s not going to describe it. It’s not important. It doesn’t matter. Grogu will not talk about the way Mayfeld stares at him.

Grogu turns around and heads further into the woods. 

Mayfeld’s footsteps do not follow.

The beast falls to beskar.

Sunset sends light hued in rich oranges peeking through the gaps in tree trunks, and in dappled spots through the overhead canopy of leaves. They rustle as the wind blows through.

But the rustling of the leaves and wind are the only sounds here, now. There are no birds chirping. There are no animals calling. 

It is silent.

Down on the forest floor, Grogu grabs the base of the beast’s antlers, and a vibroblade from his belt. There’s a lot to cut through, but the beast isn’t in any position to try and fight him now.

It isn’t in any position to do much of anything anymore, really.

The Force is quiet. He thinks, if he wanted to, he could easily chalk up the way it shifts and ripples to be in mourning tunes. The way it pushes and pulls around the beast’s carcass like the solemn lapping of waves upon a shore. It’d be easy to call it all as grief, if he wanted to.

But Grogu does not want to. Therefore, he doesn’t.

As the shadows stretch, and as the sun sets further, Grogu suddenly goes still.

The hunt is…over. It’s enough of a reprieve for his mind to start moving again; for his thoughts to churn. Grogu draws in a breath, and the ragged sound of it cuts through the forced and false tranquillity of the woods like a jagged shard of glass.

Mayfeld’s voice is in his head. And one phrase of his, in particular, is sticking out in his brain, like his spear is protruding out of the beast’s flank.

Grogu draws in another breath.

Did you lead him to me?

His grip on the antlers, and on his vibroblade, tightens.

Did you lead Migs Mayfeld to me? Was that you?

The Force is a being that has no use for words, and no real point to being articulate. But the buzzing in his ears, the shift, the purr in the responding melody could easily be translated as a;

Yes.

Grogu feels his jaw tighten.

Why?

Then he says, out loud, “I didn’t need that.”

His voice is much too loud; a Song in a graveyard. He says again, through teeth gritted now, “I didn’t need that.”

The Force, inarticulate being that it was, chooses not to answer him then.

After a second, Grogu gets back to work.

Chapter Text

Somewhere in the dark, a twig snaps, and Grogu goes still.

His ears prick. He keeps his head facing forward, staring at the crackling campfire — the visor of his helmet automatically adjusting to the brightness to shield his eyes. That means, however, that the dark of the shadows are even darker than how they would be usually, coiling between the gaps of the growth of the forest like a beast kept away by the light, lying in perfect, still, wait.

Grogu cautiously reaches out through the Force, testing the waters and tasting the Songs.

He relaxes.

"Vars?"

A pause. Then, Vars steps out from the dark. His Song is beating with some minor annoyance, and a bit of disappointment. "Damn," Vars sighs, his shoulders slumping. "How'd you guess?"

"I heard you."

"But how'd you guess me?"

"I recognized you," says Grogu. I'd recognize you anywhere, he does not.

Vars was wearing his helmet. Grogu managed to get the clear impression, however, that the Young Goran was pulling a face at him. Grogu pulled a face back, equally hidden by his own visor.

"I ever tell you how unfair it is that you get to use the Force?"

"Just about every time we spar, yeah." Grogu leans back, propping up his weight with one hand. The other, he cradles a bowl of meat stew in his lap. He says, seriously, a question despite the way that it sounds, "You're jealous."

"Absolutely." Vars plops down next to him, his Song exposing how unserious he was  — an answer to Grogu’s not-quite question; no, not really.

Before Grogu could think to be relieved, Vars immediately leans over and steals the stew off Grogu's lap. With a soft hiss of air, Vars' helmet comes off and is set down on the ground next to him.

Grogu frowns at him, as he digs in. "Hey."

"What? 'M hungry." With his mouth full, Vars waves the spoon at him. "And you didn't look like you were eating."

Grogu's now empty hand twitches, and curls into a loose fist. He glances away.

He frowns. “How did you find me?”

Vars doesn’t answer immediately. When Grogu drags his reluctant gaze over to look at him, however, he sees the Young Goran with an unsuccessfully stifled smile. Vars glances sideways at him, through the corner of his eye, and his smile grows wider.

In a low, almost conspiratory voice, Vars says, “I tracked ya.”

Grogu blinks. His eyes grow wide. “…You tracked me?”

“I tracked you!”

“Vars!” Grogu can’t help but slightly lean forward. He’s grinning. “Really?”

“Really!” Vars wriggles a bit, in place, out of his sheer excitement. He’s obviously preening — visibly proud of himself. “Wasn’t hard.”

Grogu pulls a face.

“Was a little hard,” Vars amends, as if he could see. At the very least, he must’ve been able to feel it. “…Okay, fine. It was hard hard.”

Grogu chuckles, softly. “’S kinda the point.”

“Still. Ugh.” Dramatically, oh-so-terribly-inconvenienced, Vars throws a free hand over his eyes. “Felt like I was tracking myself at times.”

Grogu gives in to the urge to lean over, knocking his fist against Vars’ arm. “You found me eventually.”

For a moment, his brother…stops. And sorta just stares at him, for a while, through the gaps of his fingers. “Yeah,” Vars says, his voice just a smidge quieter than before. He slowly brings his hand down. “I did.”

He then adds, at a more normal volume, “No thanks to you.”

Grogu shifts his hand — from a fist, to firmly grasping his brother’s arm. “Vars Prente,” he says, very seriously. “If you could track me, you can track anybody.”

“Grogu Djarin,” Vars returns, considerably less serious, but trying his best to mimic Grogu’s tone, “that may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Grogu harrumphs. He pulls his arm back. “Hey. I say nice things to you all the time.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Like how if you could track me, than you could track-“

Vars whacks the top of Grogu’s helmet with his spoon  — clang!

“Ow!” Grogu rubs at the top of his buy’ce (helmet). He’s scowling. "What's that for?"

"You're the worst brother."

"You just whacked me with a spoon- My spoon, too!"

"And I'll do it again." Vars waves the spoon threateningly in his direction, and Grogu does not doubt him.

He doesn't for anything, really. Least of all this.

"And I'm the bad brother-"

"What was that?"

"Nothing," says Grogu, quickly, innocently.

"Hmph." Vars breaks into a wide grin. He takes another spoonful of the stew, brows raising in tease and triumph. Grogu scoffs and waves him off.

They fall into an...easy, comfortable silence. A silence that Grogu rarely gets without consequence, now that he's thinking about it — the presence resting against him, grounding but not overbearing, weighty but not burdening. Just there, and yet-

And yet.

As the silence stretches, Grogu tenses, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Soon enough;

"So," Vars begins, trying his best to act casual — a feat well-done, on the track to being successful, had Grogu not have the Force Songs rumbling in his ears. "Any reason why you're out here and not, y'know, back at the base?"

Grogu bites on his lip, then gnaws at the inside. "It's 'the base' now?"

"It's a base and you know what I mean." Vars glances at him through the corner of his eye. There is something thin in that gaze, and Grogu is dipping his chin down in an apology before he even realises it. It takes a moment, before Vars' gaze softens, and he dips his own chin down to accept Grogu's unspoken 'I'm sorry'.

"Caine got back. You could imagine my reaction when you weren't with him."

Grogu pulls a face at the mere mention of Mayfeld, but there's something else about Vars' tone that nags at him — soft and solemn, with a gravelly undercurrent of a something that teeters at the precipice of a cliff, dancing around its edge.

It's unnerving.

"What'd he say?" Grogu asks, carefully keeping his emotion out of his tone — it falls very flat as a result.

"That you were being a shabuir. (Asshole)"

Grogu grunts.

"And," Vars adds, "that you went off to hunt your bounty on your own."

There it is again — that gravelly undertone, that pirouetting emotion, risking it all.

"Sure," Grogu says, very carefully. He plays close attention to the Songs, the gears in his head churning as he tries to figure out why Vars sounds like that. "I had a job to do."

Vars is quiet. It's a pause that grates at Grogu's nerves, clawing the edges to ribbons, shrill and spine-chilling, and he bites on the inside of his lip hard enough until he starts to taste copper.

Then, just when he was about to blurt out and snap and just ask him what was going on, Vars goes;

"I didn't think I'd find you."

…Oh.

Grogu turns his head to his brother. His eyes, underneath his helmet, are wide. He swallows. "Vars," says he, breathing out in a quiet whisper. "I wouldn't-"

Vars turns his head, meeting his gaze. "Wouldn't you?"

"No! I'd never-" Grogu shifts, twisting around to face Vars proper. He says, again, and though it is the truth, it sounds weak to his own ears, "I- I had a job to do."

There is a name, now, to that unspoken, gravelly, teetering on the cliff's edge, emotion that he was hearing earlier, and its mirror is there in Vars' eyes — his brother looks at him, a mixture of sad and terrified.

"It was just a bounty," Grogu tries to say, soothing platitudes.

"I didn't think the bounty would kill you," Vars replies, quietly, as if those words weren't a blade that stabbed straight through the beskar. His eyes pinch, and his brow furrows, staring at him like he was a living problem, a piece of porcelain that broke and shattered in his arms.

Vars blinks, and barks out a sudden laugh — dry and humourless and brittle. He glances away. "Haar'chak (damn it), I sound like-"

He cuts himself off. Slowly, he shakes his head, heaving a sigh heavy enough to shift his shoulders. "Can you blame me?" Vars asks the forest floor, quiet, as if he was suddenly shy, "I thought you were dead already, once."

Something in Grogu's ribcage, something beneath the beskar and bone, crumples to pieces.

He should apologise.

He should. He should duck his head and tear the words out from where they are tucked, closely, caught in his larynx, spitting them out; I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you, I didn’t mean to make you afraid, I didn’t mean to make you lose me again for however briefly, I’m sorry, so sorry, so so so sorry.

There is a lot, that Grogu should apologise for. Not just for now, not just for these past couple days. He has months worth of a debt to pay and, here, sitting around this campfire, the moon shrouded by a canopy of leaves overhead — he should just get it done and over with. They’ll only ever pile up.

He draws his hands to his lap and says nothing.

For a long while, seconds to minutes ticking by, there is only the sound of the crackling campfire flame and the barely-there rustling of the leaves from a barely-there gust of wind. There is only the barely-there, barely-audible twin pairs of breathing; the barely-there, barely-audible beating of their hearts.

There is also the Force, of course. But ever since Grogu told it off for leading him to Migs Mayfeld— or was it Mayfeld, who’d been led to him? — it’d been ever so slightly stiff and put-off, as if it were annoyed with him, or something.

If the Force were a person, he’d be worried about having irritated it enough for it to leave him, alone. Luckily they’re stuck together, for better or for worse.

(Grogu knows it would ache, just like he does, if they were ever kept apart. He knows because he’s felt it — mirroring wounds, his and those Melodies.)

Vars clears his throat. “So,” he says, and Grogu’s punishment for not saying anything is the way his voice is stiff and a bit hoarse all at once, “wanna tell me why you’re here?”

Grogu tightly swallows. He stares at his hands. Idly, he presses the talon points of two opposite fingers together.

“Caine and I had an argument,” Grogu manages at last; coughing out like an organ, bloodied and beating, still.

“…he mentioned that,” Vars says, and Grogu’s stomach constricts painfully when he realises Vars won’t just accept that and move on. Damn it. “’Bout what?”

Grogu shuts his eyes. He takes in a breath, and it shudders and rumbles clumsily into his lungs.

“Uh-“ Grogu clears his throat. He opens his eyes. He clears his throat again. “We, uh-“

Vars is staring at him. A whistling wind swerving through tree trunks and to their little campfire makes strands of the fur lining his shoulders sway, like blades of grass on a field. His chest rises and falls with every gentle breath.

Grogu stares at all of that, instead of trying to answer.

He blurts, “Caine knew my dad back when he was alive.”

Vars blinks.

“He what?”

“He knew him,” says Grogu, again, and tacks on a soundless prayer at the end that he won’t have to say it a third time — it didn’t get easier, it only felt like it was getting harder if anything. “I didn’t know. Neither of us knew, up until that hunt.”

Vars turns around to face him. His eyes are wide — shocked, surprised, taken-aback. Grogu cringes away from those notes in the Force as if they were tongues of raging fire.

“Well that’s- that’s great!” Vars blinks. He reevaluates. He gazes at Grogu, pieces probably clicking to place in his head. “Isn’t it…great?”

Grogu glances away. He stares at the fire. For a moment, he loathes the self-adjusting brightness of his visor, wishing he could stare at the bright glare of the flame and have the fire bite back — wishing it’d feel like something, mean something, hurt like something.

He’d reach out and stick his hand into the flames, if he weren’t terrified of the very notion. Something about fire…makes him uneasy.

Eventually, Vars must realise that Grogu wasn’t — wouldn’t, couldn’t, didn’t want to — answer his question. He sighs, softly.

“…how was the hunt?” He asks, instead. A safer question.

“Good,” Grogu replies. “Got it done.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Grogu reaches for his belt, unhooking his credit pouch and chucking it to Vars — who just barely reacts quickly enough to keep it from plopping into his stew. “Gonna have to do another one soon, but that should hold for a couple days.”

Vars hefts the pouch in his hand, as if testing the weight. He whistles. “Damn. Long enough for us to get out of here then?”

Grogu blinks. He cocks his head. “You don’t like it here?”

“I do.” Vars chucks the credits back to him. “You don’t, though.”

Grogu catches the pouch as it collides with his cuirass, and then keeps it there for a moment — as if the patchy fabric and chinking credits inside would act as an extra barrier for his heart that aches, suddenly.

“I don’t hate it here,” he says, as if he’s trying to defend himself.

Vars pulls a face. “Sure.”

“I’m serious.” Grogu hooks the pouch back on his belt. “I’m neutral about it. The planet’s fine.”

“You know I’m not talking about the planet.”

“Fine. The base is fine.”

“Really?” Vars sounds as if he’s, quite frankly, full of Grogu’s shit. “So we could go back right now?”

Grogu is quiet. “…you can.”

“I said we.”

Damn it.

“Thought so.” Vars doesn’t even sound smug about it — he just sounds tired. Any smugness is a more worn, fraying version of it. “What do we do about Caine?”

We?

“I’m not gonna avoid him,” he huffs. “’M not a coward.”

“…I never said you were,” Vars says, very carefully. He heaves a sigh. “You know, he does care about you.”

Grogu cannot help himself — he scoffs, loudly. “Right.”

“I’m serious. Would I lie to you?” Vars doesn’t wait for an answer; Grogu wasn’t about to give him one. “He told me to go after you. I’d have done it anyway but…he was worried about you, Grogs.”

Grogu curls one of his fingers to a tight fist. “Then he’s an idiot for it.”

To his credit, Vars doesn’t get upset by that — if you can call the humourless, barked out laugh he does just then ‘not upset’. “Everyone’s an idiot to you.”

This time, Grogu finds his courage — he finds his voice. “Not you,” he says. “Never you.”

He doesn’t look, to see whatever expression Vars may have. Neither is he going to much acknowledge or think about or even listen to the way he Sings.

He keeps his gaze glued to the fire.

“Grogu Djarin,” Vars says, and his voice is soft, and his tones are warm, and like a coward Grogu leans into it, selfishly breathing it in, “that may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Grogu breathes out — soft, sweet, soundless breath of air.

“You’re just saying things now,” says Grogu, biting hard on the urge to tremble with relief. He cocks his head, tilts it just so that he’d be able to see his brother, and he smiles. “Just for the sake of saying things.”

“Just realised did you? Did we just meet or something?” Vars fires back with his own grin. He delivers a too-soft blow to Grogu’s shoulder, before carrying the motion to grab his spoon and take another bite of the stew. “Mm-“ says Vars, muffled by his chewing, “this ‘s real good by the way. What meat is this?”

“Venison.”

“Huh?”

“Deer,” Grogu says, quietly.

“Oh.” Vars takes another bite. “Cool. Can I…?”

Grogu waves him off to let him finish the bowl. Vars had been right, earlier. He doesn’t have the appetite.

For the next couple days, Grogu Djarin does not avoid Migs Mayfeld.

…okay, fine, that’s a lie.

For the next couple days, Grogu Djarin does a lot of things, but avoid Migs Mayfeld most of all. Sure, he may have left his impromptu campsite, kicking dirt over the campfire to put it out and doing it again and again and again and again until he was absolutely sure that there was no possibility of a forest fire, and then doing it again until Vars had to forcibly yank him away by the cloak. Sure, Grogu might’ve returned to the Crest II, which — he says to Vars, on multiple occasions — was technically in the base clearing, so Grogu was technically in the base, Vars, it counts-

Vars, to his credit, doesn’t push at him as much as he certainly has the right to.

Vars, to his credit, slips seamlessly into the role of mediator, middle ground, messenger, filling in the empty space and leaving him to his distance, so much so that Grogu hadn’t the chance to ask and hadn’t the chance to even say thank you.

He likes to think he would’ve said it — thank you, to his brother. He’s sure he would’ve, had he only the opportunity, a chance to say it and not make it…weird.

He’s just waiting for the right time.

He’s sure there’s gonna be a right time, eventually.

Until then, Vars ferries credits to the Sharpshooter's crew and weapons back to the Crest II until they manage to piece together a meager arsenal — nothing like what Grogu remembers of Buir's, but it wouldn't be the first time Grogu's failed to live up to his father's legacy.

...ouch. He does these things to himself, and they hurt, but always he ends up doing them again anyway. Weird how that is.

Not that Grogu thinks about it, whilst he stays on the ship and organises and reorganises blasters and blast charges — Grogu doesn't think about it at all, and certainly doesn't think about Migs Mayfeld.

Now, Mayfeld, to his credit, doesn’t storm into the Crest II and demand to see him — doesn’t slam his fist on the hull and yell for them to finish their fight from earlier either by use of words or fists. Mayfeld, to his credit, almost feels like he’s avoiding Grogu just as much as the vice versa.

And that works out just nicely, doesn’t it? Grogu gets to stay around his ship and fix it up, Mayfeld gets to…do whatever he does, and Vars gets to flit in between them as he likes. How quaint. How…great.

It’s great.

Because Grogu does not spend many minutes staring across the distance of the clearing. He does not seek out Mayfeld’s silhouette. He does not wonder, does not think about, does not care, that maybe-

Maybe Mayfeld knows something.

About Buir.

Something that Grogu doesn’t. Something that Grogu had forgotten, maybe Mayfeld still remembers. Maybe if Grogu goes to him, asks him, then together they’d be able to piece together more a picture of a man Grogu mostly knew as dead.

Maybe Mayfeld knew his dad better than Grogu had the chance to.

But, like, that never occurs to Grogu, because Grogu never thinks about it, so he doesn’t cross that damning distance and swallow his pride and deal with the agony and burning shame of the reminder that is helmet may have belonged to his father, once, but it still wasn’t him.

That Grogu might’ve belonged to a father, once, but that didn’t make him Buir, or any closer to him, no matter how much he thinks it does or hopes it does or needs it to.

That he is a child dressing up as the warrior that loved him once, but never really got to know.

That an outsider, someone who was an enemy for a longer time than he was an ally, might’ve known Din Djarin better than his own son does. That Migs Mayfeld would succeed in something that Grogu Djarin had not.

Grogu doesn’t think about any of that. It never crosses his mind.

On the day that they are about to leave, Grogu bites down on his tongue and forces himself to trudge across that damning distance. Every step sinks heavily, weighing him down, as if the planet itself tries to hold him back, to try and convince him to turn around with every move he makes to get closer.

But the grass parts easily, and there is nothing concrete that’s actually holding him back. Grogu keeps going forward.

As he does, he spies the silhouettes of his brother amidst the rest of Mayfeld’s crew. Vars is waving his hand around in the way that he always does when he’s swept in the conversation, and from what Grogu can hear, everyone’s Song is attentive and present and at ease. It isn’t at all a far stretch to say that they all like him.

For a second, Grogu feels...envious. That Vars would know them for a shorter time than Grogu had, and already be closer.

The feeling fades. Grogu is left with the quiet question of why it ever even mattered. It’s not like he cared.

He doesn’t.

Mayfeld is standing off to the side, hands braced flat against the table, the main centrepiece of the base. He looks like he’s poring over some map of some kind, simultaneously listening in to some comms he probably tapped into. When Grogu approaches, the Sharpshooter looks up, looks down, does a double-take and then looks up again.

Mayfeld sets the comms down and straightens up.

Something in Grogu tenses, braces, like he’s about to go into battle.

A distance away, he stops. Grogu waits, expecting Mayfeld to break the silence first, as he always usually does.

Mayfeld does not.

Grogu waits.

Mayfeld, still, does not break the silence. The Sharpshooter crosses his arms, cocking a single questioning brow down at Grogu. There is a peculiar bit of steel in Mayfeld’s Song —something of stubborn defiance.

Grogu waits.

Eventually, unmoving Mandalorian visor wins, wearing down that stubborn defiance like waves lapping upon a seashore. Mayfeld’s eye twitches, and he squints, before he sighs.

“Mando.”

Grogu slowly tilts his head. Behind the visor, he pulls a face. “Hm.”

Mayfeld’s brow furrows. He squints at Grogu, his expression slowly shifting until it looks like he’s not sure what it is that he’s looking at, or at least doesn’t believe what he’s looking at. “…’hm’? That’s it?”

Grogu feels a smile, bitter and rotten, twist at the corner of his expression. He says, still, nothing.

Soon enough, Mayfeld’s eyes are narrowed to slits. He uncrosses his arms and then re-crosses them. He huffs, and then harrumphs, and then hisses, “You’re unbelievable.”

“Am I.” Grogu’s voice falls flat. He can’t help it — he cocks his head. “I thought I was being very clear about…everything?”

“Tch-“ Mayfeld scoffs at him. He bows his head, drawing in a breath as if it’ll help him soothe those bristling notes of his Song. “Kark,” breathes Mayfeld, and shakes his head. “Can’t believe I thought you’d apologise or- or something.”

“Or something,” Grogu confirms. “Need the name, Caine.”

"The n- Are you serious?"

Grogu doesn't grace that with an answer.

“So that’s it?” Mayfeld stares at him. He scoffs, disbelieving. “You’re just going back to the gutter?”

“It’s a hunt. I’ve wasted-“ Grogu stops himself. He bites his tongue. “...The name, Caine.”

For a long time, seconds ticking by uncomfortably, Mayfeld only continues to stare at him. This silence isn’t like the one from earlier—Grogu doesn’t get the impression that the Sharpshooter was waiting, willing, for him to back down and say something first. This silence-

It’s different.

Not necessarily in any good way.

Bit by bit, Mayfeld’s irritated melody turns into something more sombre; bit by bit, his eyes do not soften as much as his gaze deepens, his barely-there sneer turning to a quiet frown.

It is not unlike the way Grogu’s brother had stared at him, a couple days ago, by the campfire.

Just like then, Grogu soundlessly bristles against it.

“Your old man-“ Mayfeld begins.

“Do not start,” Grogu snaps, hissing the words out as if they were venom and his teeth were dripping with them.

“Well it needs to be said, alright?”

“From you?” Grogu scoffs. His shoulders are tense; Grogu shifts his feet, sneering, “There is nothing I’d want to hear about him, from you.”

“’Course there isn’t,” Mayfeld grits out. He keeps his arms crossed, this time, and it strikes him how absurdly obvious it is that Mayfeld’s keeping at the gesture for the excuse of holding himself, more than anything — a child curling into themselves to hide from the monster underneath their bed.

Soundless, Grogu bares his teeth —monster, enraged.

“But just ‘cause you don’t want it,” Mayfeld continues, and in a sense, it’s brave of him — foolish, but brave, “doesn’t make it any less important to hear.”

If Grogu had been paying more attention, he might’ve noticed the way every other Song in the clearing shifts their focal points to them. If Grogu had been listening, hadn’t been drowning against the roaring rush of blood in his ears, tsunami of emotion, he would’ve perhaps realised the number of eyes he’s got boring into his back.

As it was, Grogu does not notice. Grogu doesn’t notice much of anything other than the gall of this shabuir to try and tell him what his father would’ve wanted, would’ve asked for, would’ve liked. How dare Mayfeld had been to do this, to dangle such atrocious truth in front of his face like some rotten piece of meat, flinging flies and sickly dark decay.

He’d thought that it’d be shame that he’d feel, when the inevitability of the truth kicks in.

It’s mainly just rage now.

“Just give me the name, Caine.”

Mayfeld shifts his feet, taking half-a-step back. Force or no Force, the sudden spike in the Sharpshooter’s fear reeks in the air. Still, though, with that damning, stubborn bravery, Mayfeld lifts up a finger. “Are you gonna let me say my piece?”

“No,” Grogu seethes.

“Well kark off, I’m saying it anyway.”

“Caine-!”

“You think he would’ve wanted this for you?!” Mayfeld throws his arms up into the air. He shifts his feet, pacing in place for a moment, before curling his fingers to fists.

There is nothing about his expression that is important to note. Grogu does not pay it any attention.

“Do you honestly, sincerely,” for a second, Mayfeld’s voice cracks underneath the weight of all his damnedly earnest emotion, “that he would be happy-“

“What he would’ve wanted doesn’t FUCKING matter now, does it?!” Grogu crosses the distance in a flash. He’s leapt up the table, kicking and scattering maps and datapads and styluses. “Shut up. Shut up now before I make you.”

There is nothing about the way Mayfeld looks at him that is important to note. Grogu does not pay it any attention.

“Kid-“

“Do not ‘kid’ me, Mike Caine,” Grogu shoves his helmet close to the Sharpshooter’s face. His fury is blinding. “Give me the name.”

Mayfeld leans back. Quick like vice and with all the venom of one, Grogu reaches out and grabs the Sharpshooter's shirt, claws tearing little holes through the threads. Mayfeld's rapid heartbeat is the symphony accompaniment to the serving smell of his instinctive panic.

Grogu can see the reflection of a beast, fury incarnate, wearing silver beskar helmet, staring back at him from the depths of Mayfeld's eyes.

There is nothing important about the way Mayfeld looks at him.

Grogu does not-

Cannot-

Won’t-

Pay it any attention.

The knock rings hollow through the cockpit.

“Grogs?” Vars waits, a second, before delicately adding, “Busy, or can I come in?”

For a second, the only thing that replies is the sound of buttons being pressed, gentle beeping, and the occasionally scrape of claws against metal.

“It’s not like it’s my room,” Grogu says at last. He keeps his gaze on the screens and the transparisteel —beyond, to space stretching endlessly. “What’s up?”

Vars’ footsteps thud against the floor, muffled by his boots in the way a heartbeat is muffled by muscle and bone. Very slightly, Grogu feels what must be his brother resting his arms on the top of the pilot’s seat, if only based off the way it subtly moves.

“Helmet still on?” Vars asks.

Grogu purses his lips together. “Didn’t get the chance to take it off.”

“...Can I?”

Grogu pauses. He gnaws on the flesh of the inside of his lip —turned tender and raw with how often he sinks his teeth into it. Eventually, he nods.

Vars’ hands come down to gently grip the sides of Grogu’s buy’ce (helmet). It takes a bit of fiddling, before his brother finds the clasp —he unlocks it, and the helmet hisses.

Grogu blinks a couple times when the helm comes off. One hand on the controls of the ship still, he reaches up with his other one. Vars obliges and passes the helmet to him; Grogu cradles it to his lap.

Vars peers at his face. He clicks his tongue and whistles. “Damn. That’s impressive.”

“What?”

“He hit you hard enough to bruise through the beskar.”

Grogu grunts. His eyes narrow, and a small and dull burst of pain sparks from the shift of the micro expression. “The list is fine. ‘S the most important part.”

“Sure.” Vars cocks his head. He’s still staring at Grogu’s face—he wonders how the bruise must look like, to cause the furrow of the in-between of his brother’s brow. “Sure you don’t want bacta?”

“’S just a bruise, Vars.” Grogu turns his attention back to the console. He reaches around the helmet on his lap for the datapad laid atop it. The corner of the screen is cracked from the time Mayfeld had brought it down against his head, but it still switches on when Grogu activates it.

In an instant, names paired along their last known locations flicker at his disposal.

He wonders why he didn’t just take the list to begin with. It would’ve saved him a whole lot of time.

And heartache.

Peering at the list from behind him, Vars makes another low whistle. “Those are a lot of names.”

“Empire had a lot of people.” Grogu keys in the last known coordinates for the name at the top — one Cynne Qenne. “We gotta act fast going through this. Caine’s not going to update these coordinates anymore.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you pissed him off.”

“Vars.”

“You did.”

“Well he pissed me off,” Grogu points out, near petulant. He huffs. “I gave him a warning. I gave him a lot of 'em.”

“You threatened him. You gave him a lot of threats.”

“Same thing.”

“Warnings don’t usually ruin friendships, brother dearest.”

“Never had a friendship to ruin in the first place, vod.” With a push of a lever and a rumble that shakes the ship, the Crest II leaps into hyperspace. Grogu leans back in the pilot’s chair, taking in the sights for a second.

Vars leaps at the opportunity like a ravenous shark. He spins the pilot chair around —Grogu yelps, holding onto the arm rest for balance.

“I’ve decided,” Vars announces. “I’m gonna get you bacta.”

Grogu sputters. “What-? I don’t want-“

“Too bad.” Vars grabs him and slings him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, catching Grogu’s helmet before it could fall with an impressive display of reflexes. He makes his way out of the cockpit with a merry pep in his step. “Hurts my gut looking at your face all banged up like that.”

“I’ll wear a helmet, then. Vars-“

“Nope.”

“It’s just a-“ Grogu struggles. Vars tightens his grip. Grogu seethes quietly. “Godsdamn you, Vars Prente, put me down.”

“Not gonna.” Vars hooks Grogu’s helmet to his belt, next to his own. He begins one-handedly climbing down the ladder.

“I’m not gonna let you waste bacta.”

“Not a waste if you’re usin’ it?”

“It’ll heal on its own.”

“So will a broken bone.”

“Not comparable.”

“Is too.”

“Is not.”

Vars plops him down on one of the bunks. He then kneels, reaching under the bed for the Medkit. “Is too.”

Grogu glares, resisting the urge to kick him in the face. “What if I need the bacta to, like, actually save my life later?”

Vars opens the Medkit, looks down at it, and then looks up at him. His brow is pointedly cocked. “You have plenty.”

“But what if I need it?” With a foot, Grogu pushes the Medkit away from him. He harrumphs. “I don’t need you to baby me.”

Vars’ brow is still cocked. Grogu shoves at the Medkit a little harder for that. “Kark off.”

“I’m just saying-“ Vars begins.

“Save it,” Grogu snaps. He looks away, lip curled just barely to show a sliver of teeth. “Save it.”

There is nothing important about the way Vars looks at him.

“…what if it’s for me?” Vars tries. When Grogu sharply turns to look at him, he quickly clarifies. “I mean, what if it’ll make me feel better if you let me do this?”

Grogu blinks.

He narrows his eyes.

He squints.

“…that’s low.”

“It’s working, isn’t it?” Vars is grinning now.

“Still really low.” Grogu huffs. He still drops his gaze off somewhere to the side, but when Vars rummages around the Medkit and begins twisting the bacta spray to its ‘on’ setting, Grogu doesn’t protest.

“Ah-“ Vars clicks his tongue at him. He holds the nozzle of the spray up and Grogu shuts one eye, letting his brother mist the bacta around the bruise. “You’d do the same for me.”

Grogu does not say anything, just about then. Mainly because Vars was right. Grogu would do the same for him. Grogu would reach into his chest cavity to sew his bones back together with needle and thread, elbows deep in blood and gore and visera, if that’s what it takes to keep his brother alive.

Grogu needs him alive.

“Raincheck,” he says instead. Vars rolls his eyes, because he knows Grogu doesn’t mean it.