Beskar isn't fool proof.

And sometimes, Din Djarin is a fool.

He peels off the armor slowly, piece by piece, offering each the thanks to which it's owed. He whispers the prayers passed down from by his ba'buire, who learned it from their own.

Din stiffly tugs down his kute, wincing as it rubs against skin that had seen better days, after over a week and a half without a real sonic.

He feels bare here, even more so than normal. Still numb from all that's happened, after finally getting his kid back and then- And then.

He doesn't feel upset about it, which he supposes should be concerning in and of itself. Cara sure as hell thought so, and even Bo-Katan had seemed a little thrown off. Boba had muttered something about "shock" and "exhaustion" and "he'll feel it later." Din hopes he won't. Hopes he'll stay blissfully, peacefully numb. Hopes everything will always feel as strange and surreal as it does now.

The steel floors are cold beneath his feet as he steps into the shower, thankful the cruiser is big enough to have a practically limitless hot water supply. Enjoys for a second, the feeling of the rivulets running down his skin, revels in the burn of the water over cuts and bruises.

Din's not sure how long he's stood there by the time he finally turns off the stream and steps out, shivering under the ship's vent as he digs through cupboards for a towel he ought to have found earlier. He finds one, and is alerted to another issue he should have anticipated.

Staring at his kute, so stiff with sweat and blood that it could stand on its own, Din considers the fact that he doesn't even have a second set of small clothes to his name.

He elects to worry about that later, once he's dry and no longer dripping all over the floor.

As he gently runs the towel over his skin, he catches a glimpse of himself in the still fogged mirror. Stops and stares awhile at the face that isn't his, but must be.

He needs to shave.

He doesn't have a razor.

Din lets his towel drop despite the chill of the air, and looks at the body he's hardly seen before.

There is- was- no mirror on the razor crest, and even if there was, he hardly thinks he'd spend much time looking into it. Which is why it's strange, now, that he feels so fascinated as he stares at the darkened welts lining his skin, where the armor disseminated the energy of blaster bolts, but not the force.

The Force.

What a simple word for something that ripped his life to pieces and choked him with it.

What a simple word for something that stole from him until he had nothing left to give.

The Force demands balance, they say, but this doesn't look like any balance Din's ever heard of.

Din's gaze shifts to the corner where his armor rests, less a silver now than a dull grey from the grease and grime.

How odd that a metal would fight so hard to protect his body when it gave up his soul so easily.

But Beskar isn't fool proof.

And sometimes, Din Djarin is a fool.