Guarantee of Life
By Rey
When one knows only of death and destruction, signs of life is truly a comfort. Even when sleeping. Or, maybe, especially when sleeping.
Author and chapter notes: If you were curious, this Tarre is in the small-3-year-old-human range of size. And have a cuddly, fluffy piece to begin the year, folks!
Started on: 1st December 2021 at 05:25 AM
Finished on: 1st January 2021 at 04:01 PM
O-O-O-O
Din doesn't know when he is at last truly himself, when he is at last able to detach himself – his mind, his emotions, his thoughts, his sensations – from his… well, from the child that is not a child – not really, but still.
It doesn't mean that he has managed to detach himself physically from the said not-quite-a-child, though; not at all. He is still very much curled round the deceptively small, thin, fragile body, which is shivering hard and tugging at his damned heart in the process.
Well, if he were honest to himself, he would have admitted that he doesn't want to be detached, either. This is the first prolonged positive contact he has with anybody since the Mandalorians took him in when he was not much older than the age this child's body would suggest, after all.
But the cargo hold's cold, durasteel decking is truly uncomfortable to spend long lying on, especially in one's armour, however clean the floor is, if one doesn't need to hold this position for any reason. So, quite reluctantly, he does his best to move his fingers, then toes, then hands, then feet, then arms, in preparation to haul himself into at least a seated position.
The child moves with him, as thought-of-guessed-expected by now. They cling fast to him, like a Mon Kala octopus to one of the stilts of a pier, with one tiny hand pressed flat against his ribs.
As if assuring themself that he is still alive, still warm, still breathing.
Even while there is something pressing against his mind, as if cuddling it as well.
It is thus fortunate – and wholely unexpected – that, when he explains that he wishes to remove his outer shell, the little one lets go of him and lets themself be perched on the bunk, peering at him through the open door of the compartment.
But, sadly, it is the extent of their tolerance. Because, after divesting himself from everything but his innermost layer of clothes and his helmet and a blaster pistol, when he tries to rig a small hammock above his bunk and reclaim the bunk for himself in the process, his new – temporary? – companion determinedly sabotages his efforts.
They subside only when he stops trying. But it doesn't mean that they are willing to vacate the bunk or accept his earlier plan for their sleeping arrangement. No, they settle themself right beside his pillow, in fact, curling up tightly into themself and burying their head into the side of the said pillow, with their newly retrieved sword-knife tucked somewhere nearby but out of sight.
They seem to try to convey, `Do not make me rest elsewhere. Do not remove me. I am not taking up much space, I swear. See?` and Din can only sigh to that.
`They had no luck sleeping alone,` he reminds himself. `How often did I myself wish somebody had been there when I got nightmares?`
He still wishes he were not alone suffering his nightmares, sometimes, even, and what he has experienced is comparably much less traumatic than what little-but-not-little Tarre has just escaped.
So, resigning himself somewhat reluctantly to sharing a bed with someone to sleep for the night, which will be the first since he was taken in by the Mandalorians, he crawls into the bunk and shuts the door behind him, sealing the two of them inside the small compartment.
He once more spreads the cooling blankets under and on the child, who regards him all the while with large, luminous blue eyes under the nearly nonexistent lighting inside the compartment. Then he moves their nest of spare blankets to their chosen spot beside his pillow, tucking it round their tiny, stiff, curled-up form with room to stretch out and move about.
"Nuhoyir jate, ad'ika," he murmurs when the child is once again cosily tucked in their little nest. And, for once, he rues how the vocoder of his helmet makes his words sound harsher, even to his own ears.
He rubs the child's back gently and soothingly with his bare hand in lieu of more comforting words, then, and only relaxes when those huge blue eyes blink in shorter and shorter intervals.
The child glares sleepily, grumpily at him when he grins at them from behind his helmet, so he does his best to regulate his expression and body language… and has to fight back laughter instead.
He can't deny it: Like this, so relaxed and trusting and childlike, Tarre Vizsla is… cute.
Well, the damned limpet is less cute in his opinion when Din goes to sleep himself and wakes up an indeterminate time after with the said limpet sprawled on his front, with one ear pressed over his heart and one hand resting against his ribcage. But he is too damned sleepy and exhausted to care, so he simply wraps his arms round the brat and turns to his side, plonking back into slumber right after.
He'll deal with this tomorrow. Maybe.
O-O-O-O
Translation of Mando'a dialogue:
"Nuhoyir jate, ad'ika." = "Sleep well/good night, little one."