pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C

word count: 9.3K

chapter summary: Din makes a declaration, Grogu gives Marathel a new name, Din, Boba, and Cobb get drunk, and Marathel remembers something.

warnings: fluff of Air Supply proportions, angst of Evenscence proportions, mention of blood and injury, alcohol use, drunken misbehavior, sexual innuendo and language, English and Mando'a cursing

***Please feel free to comment, kvetch, or otherwise speak your mind about my work. ***

Despite his desire to fly as if the hounds of hell were at his heels, Din dropped out of hyperspace three-and-one-third hours after hearing about Marathel. He had asked Cobb to send regular reports, which he had. The Modifier had brought a supply of synth-blood which stabilized Marathel to some degree. Cobb sent the holo he had taken of Marathel taking her awkward first steps in real shoes, which amused both Din and Grogu, lightening the mood briefly. "Silly Mahr, huh, kid?" Din asked Grogu, who chattered at the image, ending with the words Pree Mahr again. Cobb also sent a still holo of a smiling Marathel feeding a sheep, which made Din wonder where they were at the time Marathel's health went south. What happened? he wondered. Did she encounter something infectious, like that sheep, that her fragile system couldn't handle? Did the treatment just wear off?

Is there any hope for her?

Din tried to push that thought away to remain focused on entering Tatooine's atmosphere properly and getting to the palace without incident. The last two messages Cobb had sent were disconcerting: the Modifier's contacts were demanding cash — not that that was surprising — and Marathel had taken to quietly singing in a language that the protocol droids could not fully translate other than the words long sleep, rest, and be still.

Din hoped that the Ossum Aurodium coins would suffice for cash. It was for Marathel, to help her, so Din assumed it would be proper to offer it as payment from her bounty. Din was more concerned about Marathel's singing. She was obviously singing the only song, but a part that Din believed was some sort of last rites based on the translatable words. He found it curious that the protocol droid could place some of her language, but not all of it. He supposed that neither here nor there right now.

The Razor Crest entered the palace landing tunnel; this time, Din's approach was at a properly controlled speed, and he carefully landed on the far side of the small ship that stood ready to leave as soon as possible. Cobb stood watching the Crest, face full of worry, still wearing his blood-stained clothes. Silnima and another palace worker were scrubbing away what Din assumed were pools of blood from the brick walkway at the edge of the tunnel. As soon as the ramp was down, Din shoved the two crates of synth-blood down to a waiting Modifier.

Carrying Grogu on his arm, Din rushed down the ramp, asking, "Is she still …?"

"Barely," said the Modifier. "We should have left hours ago."

Din took off at a run to the other ship. Before he could get there, Cobb grabbed his arms, forcing him to stop. "Not now, Cobb!"

"Stop. Stop! You must know … he's taking her to Imps, Din! To Imps!"

Din said in a low voice, enunciating every syllable, "I would take her to the Emperor himself if he would help her."

Cobb gave Din a shake. "Do you not get it, man? You can't take her! You can't go with her!" Din stared at Cobb uncomprehendingly for a long moment, then he dropped his head. Cobb moved his hands to Din's shoulders, listening to Din's raspy breathing through his modulator. "I'm sorry, Din. But you know can't go with her, not if she's going even anywhere near Imps. You must protect Grogu. You know that."

Din shifted his gaze to Grogu. "I know. Damn it, I know," his voice sounding strangled in his helmet's modulator. He pushed off Cobb's hands and resumed his run to the Modifier's ship.

He rushed up the ship's ramp, shouting, "Marathel!" Hearing Fennec shout back to him, he went in that direction, turning a corner into a small medi-room. Marathel lay on a cot, looking about as bad as he'd ever seen her: pale, blood tracks down her cheeks, trembling. Boba was holding her hand, Fennec at her head, a medi-droid administering some sort of injection.

Upon seeing Din and Grogu, Marathel raised her head with a look of relief, and then, confusion. She pulled off her oxygen mask, crying, "Din … I ..."

"Out. Everyone out!" snapped Din. Boba and Fennec left immediately, and Din had to refrain from grabbing the droid and flinging it out of the room. Fortunately, the droid left directly after Boba and Fennec. Once gone, Din shut the door and flipped off the lights, plunging the room into darkness.

"Din … what … what are you …?" Marathel asked weakly. Din, still holding Grogu, went straight to her side, removing his helmet with one hand, dropping it on her lap. He placed his hand on her jaw and kissed her, hard and furtive, with desperation, Marathel mewling in her throat as she felt his lips pressing firmly on hers and what she assumed to be a mustache on his upper lip. Grogu squirmed loose, bawling "Ma Mahr, Ma Mahr, Ma Mahr!" as he climbed up her chest and put his little hands on her face. Marathel felt a warmth emanate in her cheek from Grogu's touch, and she knew he was trying to heal her in any way he could. She raised her hand and found Din's face in the darkness, feeling sparse facial hair and a soft warm cheek. His lips left hers, and she felt his forehead pressing against her hair. "Please, Din … I have to say …"

"I love you, Marathel, ma'mwsh ha'laa," growled Din, his voice hoarse and breaking. "Nothing else matters! I love you! Now go!" he said fiercely. Marathel felt the helmet leave her lap, then Grogu's hands leaving her face, and the door opened, spilling light into the room as Din — helmeted again, a howling Grogu in his arms — rushed out, shouting, "GO! GO NOW!"

Grogu began screaming "MA MAHR! MA MAHR!" at the top of his lungs. On his way out of the ship, Din saw Fennec — who was apparently going with Marathel on this journey — and tried to give her the bag of Aurodium coins for payment. She quickly parceled out some of the coins and gave the bag back to Din, pushing him and the howling Grogu to the ramp. By the time Din was running down the raising ramp, Grogu was shrieking, "MAMA! MAMA! MAMA!" They all watched the Modifer's ship lift and leave the tunnel. Grogu continued to shriek, and Din could feel the very air molecules electrify around the boy as grains of sand began to lift from the ground, along with all the speeders — and to Din's amazement, even the Razor Crest began rocking — as the boy screamed "MAMA!" over and over.

Silnima hurried over, saying, "The child needs help now, come with me." Din nodded, glad to have to focus on Grogu instead of his dread that Marathel may well die. Cobb followed, miserable as could be, wanting to help somehow. Silnima led them all back to Marathel's room, and she turned on a gentle fall of warm water in the fresher, tossing in fragrant melting tablets, instructing Din to take Grogu in there, to sit under the soft falling water to calm him. Cobb wrenched the cloth bag of coins still clutched in Din's fingers, and helped Din remove his armor and boots. Din undressed Grogu and stepped under the shower, breathing in the soothing herbal scent of the fizzing tablets. Silnima said she would go get a calming tea for Grogu — for all of them.

"How long should we stay under, Silnima?" asked Din, weary from emotion.

"Until he's quieted down."

Din looked at her. Grogu was still wailing, whimpering Mama every few sobs. "That will waste a lot of water."

Silnima, red-eyed and exhausted, drew herself up and announced, "I am Headwoman of this palace and in charge of water use. Stay in there until Grogu has settled."

After Silnima left, Cobb stammered, "Din … I …"

"Later," said Din as he carefully sat down on the floor of the fresher, rubbing Grogu's back, water quietly pinging off Din's helmet. Cobb found several towels and set them out before leaving, closing the outer door behind him.

Din sighed, and then removed his helmet. It hardly seemed right or necessary to wear it around Grogu anymore. Removing his helmet made him notice the herbal aroma of the scented tablets, putting him in the mind of Marathel's bed on Unmanarall. He held Grogu close to him and sang the Mando'a lullaby a few times before simply humming the melody of Marathel's only song, which seemed to calm Grogu. Then Din went quiet — his own throat too thick with tears to continue humming —comforting the boy only through touch, stroking his ears, kissing his fuzzy head, holding their foreheads together. After a while, the water was growing cold, and Grogu's sobs had reduced to whimpers and occasional hiccups. Din reached up and turned off the water, grabbed one of the towels, and wrapped up Grogu so he wouldn't get a chill. They remained sitting in the fresher for a while longer until Din felt chilled himself. Whether he was emotionally or physically chilled he couldn't say, but he pushed himself up and grabbed the other towel to dry off the little boy. Grogu stared at him with those huge eyes of his, breathing little hitching breaths, reminding Din of the enormous emotionally crazed pod race they'd been running for the past fifteen days that started with landing on a distant planet to find a woman who threw rocks at him. Fifteen days? Seems like a kriffing lifetime. All he could say to Grogu was, "I know, buddy. I know." And he did.

There was a tapping at the door to the room. Silnima opened it slightly and called out, "May I come in?"

Din replaced his helmet and left the fresher room, carrying Grogu in the towels. This kid's spent more time naked than dressed in the past few days. Lucky him. "Come in."

Silnima entered, carrying an earthenware pot in one hand and mugs in the other. She looked at Grogu. "It looks like the scented tablets helped?"

Din nodded. "Why are we in Marathel's room?"

Silnima put down the mugs and poured the tea, and then pulled a flask from her pocket and put a tiny dollop of amber liquid in one cup, and a much healthier dollop in the other. "So Grogu will feel closer to her. I thought you two should sleep in here tonight." She pointed a stern finger at Din's visor. "Don't mix up the cups. I don't need a drunken miniature Jedi on my hands."

"Yes, ma'am," replied Din with a tiny smile, somewhat glad that the headwoman no longer felt he was simply an irritation to Marathel.

Silnima sighed deeply. "I'd give you the flask, but I might want it later. That poor woman of yours …" She scrubbed her nose with the back of her hand. "Never met anyone like her. She is … fragile as spun dune glass and tough as durasteel. Only ever wants to please, like a sweet little child." Silnima looked lost in thought for a moment, then looked back up at Din. "Oh, Marshal Vanth is outside the door. He seems to think you won't want him in here."

Din dropped his head, muttering, "For the love of Frith." Din went to the door and poked his head out, seeing Cobb leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking at the floor. He was freshly showered himself and in a clean shirt, comb trails through his wet hair. In his arms he had clean sets of Din's and Grogu's clothes. Din sighed. "Well, c'mon, hilljack, you might as well join us."

Cobb glanced at him with a smirk. "Ain't no hilljack, I'm a dustfoot and proud of it." He pushed himself off the wall. "How's the little green guy?"

Din looked down at the boy, swathed in the giant towel. "He's calmer. And Silnima is pouring some strong hot toddies in there. Want one?"

"Damn skippy I do," said Cobb, following Din back into Marathel's room. Silnima took Grogu, now exhausted from his weeping and getting cranky. She offered to get him redressed while Din changed and drank his tea in the fresher room.

Din took the damp towels with him and used them himself as he changed. He had pulled on his thermal bottoms when he happened to glance up at the large mirror, and his eyes fell on the bite mark on his chest. It was half-healed, and it looked like it would not scar, probably due to the healing salve he had used in Marathel's hut. Din stared at it for a while, thinking of the scars Marathel would have to carry from now on.

She marked me.

Continuing to stare at the bite mark, Din gulped down the tea, heavily laced with whatever sour mash Silnima had poured in there. Feeling the burn go down his esophagus into his belly, Din reached up and raked over the bite mark with his fingernails, over and over until the skin was broken and irritated. Blood beaded on the surface of his skin, a minuscule amount of suffering in comparison to what Marathel had to endure.

Come what may, I will wear this mark with honor.

Din finished dressing, finding a pair of Marathel's socks in a pocket. Before replacing the helmet, he looked closely at the repair in the back; there was only the slightest difference in the beskar used for the rebuilt section, as if there had been a marginal change of temper in the metal, or the most minuscule variance of mineral content in the ore. Din kissed the repair, knowing that Marathel's flesh and blood, burned into the beskar in the forge, were now part of his burden. His Creed.

Now dressed, he left the fresher again to find Silnima holding Grogu as the boy drank from the cup of tea. She remarked, "These little togs Grogu is wearing are quite charming. Clever design. Marathel's handiwork?"

Din nodded, reaching out to rub between his fingers the little embroidered Mudhorn on Grogu's sleeve. Silnima noticed and raised pitying eyes to Din's helmet. "I think Grogu is sleepy now, Sir Mandalorian," said Silnima. Din lifted his hand to softly pet Grogu's head; the spiked tea had done its work as Grogu's head was nodding. Silnima continued, "If you like, I could sit with him … I think perhaps you might like a little more tippling than a single mug of tea? You have had a difficult time as well."

Cobb said, "I know where there's a near-full flagon of that stuff in Silnima's flask, friend, and I've never met a liquor cabinet I couldn't bust into." At Silnima's vexed expression, he said, "You don't mind, do you?"

Din was already shaking his head. "I can't … I can't leave him alone. He misses her so much already. He's completely devastated. If he wakes up and I'm not there …"

"I will be here," said Silnima. "He won't be alone." She handed off Grogu to Din. "Put him to bed now. Let him sleep."

Din carefully put Grogu into Marathel's bed, and the boy automatically burrowed into her pillow, breathing deep of Marathel's scent. "Cobb, Silnima, please leave for a moment …" They complied, and Din went to one knee beside the bed. He placed a hand on the boy's cheek and recited the traditional Mando'a goodnight. "I'll be here when you wake up, buddy. I promise." Grogu's ears drooped with a sigh. "Hopefully we'll hear more about Mahr tomorrow."

"Mama." said Grogu pointedly.

Din nodded his head. "Mama," he croaked, barely able to get the word out. There was so much he felt he should say to Grogu. Should he prepare him for the worst, or just wait until the worst came? Sometimes we do our best, but it doesn't work. Sometimes people get too hurt, and they can't get better. Sometimes … Mamas die. But he couldn't, he couldn't say those things out loud to a little boy who had already lost so much, much more than Din even knew about. And Grogu's eyes were too sleepy to speak of such dire things, so Din lifted his helmet and kissed the boy's fuzzy little head, whispering, "Your Mama loves you."

Grogu, finally succumbing to his exhaustion, mumbled, "Patu Mama," as he fell asleep. Din — who had never watched those rom-com holovids, nor did he have a disc containing several of the best ones to watch again — had previously believed there was no such thing as heartache, certainly not in any kind of physical manner. Now he knew differently. He stood and quietly left Marathel's room. Silnima was standing just outside, and Cobb had taken up his previous spot, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, head down. Cobb looked up and brandished the bottle at Din. Din sighed and nodded. Silnima squeezed Din's elbow and went back into Marathel's room while Din and Cobb slowly walked to the far courtyard.

"When was the last time you got drunk, friend?" asked Cobb.

"Sometime during the Rebellion." It was a time he was not proud of. Sometimes he still heard the screams as he tried to fall asleep.

"Then you're well overdue."

"You know I cannot drink with the helmet."

Cobb held up a flexible straw. "Got you covered."

Din sighed. "Why are you so insistent on getting me drunk?"

"One: I think it would be entertaining. Two: your ass is dragging so low you're wiping out your own footprints. Three: … I like making lists of three."

"Are you drunk already?"

"Working on it," Cobb said, taking a generous swig from the bottle. "Kriffing hell. She was having such a good day. Smiling, joking, petting a damn sheep." They had made it to the courtyard, where the very night before, a tipsy Marathel had leaned against Cobb's arm while he fed her nuts, and shortly thereafter he had kissed her as she slept. And Maker love a dewback, I want her for myself. Cobb pulled out two cups from his shirt pockets and poured out the liquor nearly to the brims. He handed one cup and the straw to Din. The other cup he raised high as he said, "To Marathel."

Din felt a rage flare in his chest. "Stop speaking of her as if she were already dead."

Cobb and Din stared at each other. Cobb kept eye contact with Din's visor as he amended, "To Marathel, may she live long and in good health." Cobb drank from his cup, unblinking. "Why do I feel as if you're about to beat the living shit out of me, friend?"

Should I, Cobb? Why are you looking so guilty, friend? Din knew his anger was completely irrational, but he relished it just the same. He roughly pulled out a chair and sat. "Tell me how it all happened today."

Refusing to break eye contact with Din, Cobb took another swallow, and then sat down himself. "She woke up late this morning after going through the treatment twice yesterday. She seemed so much better. Her color was good, her wounds were closed. I thought she might like some time away from the palace, and there was a market today. I found her a pair of boots to wear, and we took that old piece of shit speeder of Peli's, because I knew it would go too slow to scare Marathel," — Din chuckled at that, which made Cobb relax a bit — "and visited the market. Bought some sweets, some honey, a pair of shoes that fit her. Had a bite to eat. Met a yarn seller, and she was as excited about that yarn as some other woman would be about jewelry."

Din relaxed some. "Her first market, and she wants yarn. That's … so like her."

"And then she got to pet the sheep."

"She's never seen one before," said Din. "The Bishop ordered all the wool critters slaughtered before she was born." Din took a deep sip from the cup, enjoying the burn of the liquor. "Apparently, he itched."

Cobb let loose with a colorful string of epithets that brought into question not only the Bishop's parentage in terms of domesticated livestock, but also his sexual proclivities, making Din chuckle. But Cobb sobered quickly. "Then … it all started with a nosebleed. My first thought was that she was having a hard time with the desert air. It's so dry, everyone gets nosebleeds now and then. But she kept on … Man, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I took her to the market. She was doing so well, and I just thought she'd like… like to have some fun. If I hadn't taken her … she might not have …"

Din looked down at the cup he held in both hands. He couldn't fault Cobb. "I think she would have started failing regardless of where she was. It's good you were with her," he said, before drinking again.

"No, no, man, I'm a piece of shit…"

"I know that."

"Hey, I'm trying to apologize, Din, for taking her to her first market. It should have been you." After looking at each other for a moment, both men drank in silence. "You, uh … you tell her you love her? In Basic this time?"

Din looked into his cup, wondering why it was empty. "Yeah, I told her."

Cobb gave Din a refill. "Huh. Did you give her a chance to respond before you booked it out if there?"

Din sighed deeply. "Nope."

"You chickenshit."

"Who's chickenshit?" asked Boba, who was holding a platter of sliced meat and cheese, as well as another flagon, this one of good old-fashioned nog.

Cobb snagged a hunk of meat before the platter hit the table. "Din is chickenshit. He told Marathel I love you and then scampered before she could say a word."

Boba swigged from the flagon of nog before sitting down. "Yeah, that's chickenshit of you, Din. Unsurprising, but still chickenshit."

Din sipped on his straw. "Fuck you both sideways."

Cobb ran his foot up Din's calf with his lopsided smile. "Don't threaten me with a good time." Din lightly kicked his foot away. "Did Fennec go with her, Boba?"

Boba nodded. "Using the cover of Fennec pulling Marathel off a moving sex slave trade. Specializes in Red Rooms. It explains why Marathel has no chip — and the extent of her injuries. Fennec will say she found her in a spaceport in Mos Eisley … a chronic runaway."

"A lot of the big moving slavers have their own chips, or their own marks," remarked Cobb.

"She has a brand," said Din, his voice almost mechanical. "They branded her as a little girl." Din's voice cracked on the words little girl. Boba and Cobb looked at each other. Then Cobb leaned over and squeezed Din's forearm while topping off his cup again with the mash. Din took another sip. "When will they communicate?"

Boba took a breath before replying. "They won't." Din's head swiveled to Boba. "Comm silence until they're on their way back. Modifier's going to dump the ship; the women will get a roundabout public transport." Din looked back at the cup in his hands. "Has to be this way, Din. Fennec's taking too much of a risk as it is. And then you gave her the Aurodium as payment; I thought that was going to your covert."

"The covert wouldn't accept it. The Aurodium must go to Marathel, according to the Armorer. It wasn't mine to take. Except now I have to find buyers for the damn things; it's not like those coins have been legal tender for the past 2000 years." Din sighed. "Dank ferrik, it was just supposed to be an uncomplicated bounty."

Boba laughed. "No such thing."

"I didn't mean to fall in love with her …" Din took another long sip. "But seeing her in that pretty yellow dress, standing in that tree, stamping her foot and yelling at me ..." Din began to slump in his chair; the alcohol was working. "Throwing eggs at me, tackling me and laying me flat out on my back …"

Boba shoved some meat in his mouth and muttered, "I dare you to make less sense."

"So kriffing beautiful. Even puking her guts out, still so beautiful. Bent over a rock, puking because she breathed in Mist so that Grogu would be safe. One day, she'd known that boy of mine, and she's already protecting him like a mama Wookiee." Din sighed deeply. "She begged me to take my helmet off, just as a kindness, just so that she'd know the man who had invaded her home wasn't the man she feared most. Offered her body to me if I wanted, all I had to do was take off the helmet, of course." Din took another long drink. "Told her no. Won't even toss her a mercy helmetless fuck when she's about to sacrifice herself for my damn benefit." He carefully placed his cup on the table using both hands, slowly removing his hands, making sure the cup was level and stationery before standing up and then throwing his chair across the courtyard. "What am I doing, telling her I love her? And I can't even be a man about telling her I love her … I turn off the lights, tell her in the dark so I don't show her my face, because I'm not allowed to." He began pacing back and forth. "I can't give her the life she needs. I live in kriffing outer space. She needs land, sun, a farm…"

"A sheep …," said Cobb.

"Hush. He's on a roll," drawled Boba.

Din staggered back to his cup, where it took two tries for him to grab it. "You know what she needs? That woman needs a baby. She needs to be a mother to a whole mess of little womp rats. And you know what I can't do?"

"Be a fun drunk?" asked Cobb.

"I can't give her a baby because I stepped on a land mine, and I nearly blew off my balls. Back when I was running with that mercenary crew. Got a piece of shrapnel right in my sack and it sliced me up. That's why that Xi'an bitch broke it off with me, because I was out of commission for weeks. I was like 'hey, it still works, just not every time you want it to, you twat, maybe if you used your mouth for something other than talking, we might all be happier!'"

"This is so much more than I wanted to know," muttered Boba.

"Hush. He's on a roll," said Cobb.

Din tried to take a pull on the straw and nearly shoved it up his nose. He tossed it away and lifted his helmet enough to drink directly from the cup. "Haar'chak, my mesh'la would be so kriffing hot if she were pregnant. That round belly of hers even rounder, her breasts would be massive. I'd just sit there and watch her waddle around all kriffing day." Din started weaving on his feet.

"Sit down before you fall down, Din," said Cobb.

"Well, I would but some asshole took my chair!" Cobb retrieved both Din's chair and his straw. "Excellent. A straw. Now I can drink with you two." Din sat down with a deep sigh and murmured, "Mesh'la, cyar'e, ner kar'ta. Ma'mwsh ha'laa." He took the woven bracelet, still damp after sitting in the fresher with Grogu, from his pocket. He twisted it around his fingers, thinking of Marathel, surrounded by children, laughing, swinging in circles holding his Grogu, humming the melody of her only song. Mesh'la, my mesh'la, my … he took another deep pull on his straw, feeling the warmth of whatever the shab he was drinking, just knowing that it was as delicious as he believed Marathel's skin was, and he slid down further in his chair. He began to feel a wobbliness like his concussion, when his brain was misfiring and nothing was making sense as he tried to help Marathel with her wounds. He suddenly fell into a drunken despair, remembering her suffering, and then a thought he'd previously refused to consider rose back to the surface, and he began to mutter, "Oh, haar'chak. Kriff kriff kriff kriff …" Din dropped his head into his hands.

Cobb and Boba looked at each other. "Now what?" asked Cobb.

"Didn't think about it … didn't even consider it … dank ferrik!" Din got up and threw his chair again. "You have to message Fennec … she'd know … why wouldn't she tell me?!"

"Tell you what, you rancor's asshole?" snapped Boba.

"All those men … she said her cycle didn't follow the Dahls' cycle … but she could be pregnant by one of them. One of those hu'tuuns could have bred her, and then she'd have to suffer through that …"

"Calm the fuck down, Din, she's not pregnant," said Boba, taking a swig from his nog.

Din stopped his pacing and pointed a wobbly finger at Boba. "And how the fuck do you know that old man?"

"Fennec tested her. She always does when a woman like Marathel comes in. Fennec tells me if they are because I have contacts for termination meds. It's hard to come by out here."

Cobb nodded. "Hard to get implants out here sometimes too. Too expensive for a lot of folks."

Din sighed. "Well, that's … something, at least." He looked around him. "Why does my chair keep disappearing?" Cobb began to laugh. Din looked around, found his chair, and dragged it back to the table, where he slumped into it again. "Now I remember why I don't drink often."

"Because you're a miserable bastard?" asked Cobb, still laughing about Din's chair.

"I like it too much." Din took another pull.

Boba snorted. "You are the epitome of drunken shenanigans."

Cobb was slumped in his chair by now as well, looking up at the night sky; thinking about Marathel pregnant. She would be kriffing magnificent. Glorious. That woman might be the only person that would make me consider going monogamous. And fully hetero, that fabulous creature.

"And what the fuck are you thinking about, Cobb, with that shit-eating grin?" slurred Din.

Like I'd tell you that I'm half in love with your woman. "I'm thinking about whether or not I'm drunk enough to start singing."

Boba grunted, his chin to his chest. "I'm not drunk enough to hear you sing."

Din waved his arm. "You go ahead and sing, buddy. I bet you have the voice of a Naboo diva."

Cobb belched. "Too fucking right, I do." He took a gulp of mash, then sang:

"Look at the little Jawa

Look at his little feet

And his little nosey-wose

Isn't the Jawa sweet?"

"YES!" shouted Din, pumping his fist in the air.

Cobb laughed. "All right, Din. Truth or Dare."

"Dank ferrik, no, Cobb. Ask Boba."

"I would, but he's passed out. Hey! Wake up, you old fart!" Cobb threw a piece of cold meat from the platter, and it stuck to Boba's bald head. Both Cobb and Din laughed while Boba snorted himself awake, then plucked the flap of meat off his head and ate it. "You're shit out of luck, bucket-head. Truth or Dare."

Din grunted. "Fine. Truth," he said, fully expecting some sort of question about Marathel.

"Tell me …" Cobb pointed at Din with his cup hand, the mash sloshing over the rim. "Tell me a secret you've never told anyone else."

Din nodded once, then twice, the motion making him slightly dizzy. He took a breath, and said in a rush, "I watch romantic-comedy holovids to learn how to interact with people. How to talk to women. I've watched them for years. Decades. The problem is … no one behaves in real life like they do in those vids." Certainly not Marathel.

Cobb raised an eyebrow. "Well, shit. Here I was, hoping to finally hear the damn story about the antique sofa and the freighter full of lube, but you have to go and be a fucking buzzkill, friend."

"Yeah, no such luck." Din hiccupped. "Never telling anyone that story. And anyway, you forgot about the Rodian."

Cobb finished off his cup. "Oh, yeah, the Rodian. Whatever happened to him?"

Din shrugged. "He's a waiter at a Huttese restaurant on Coruscant. I get a holotext from him every now and again. Nice guy. Dating a Twi'lek."

"Speaking of, hey, Boba, have you seen that new Twi'lek dancer at the cantina in Mos Eisley?"

Boba was looking intently at his empty bottle of nog. "The pinkish gal?

Cobb made a rude noise. "No, man, the green gal! The pinkish gal? Not her! That poor woman has the saddest tits. Damned depressing."

"Oh yes, you're right. You should see these tits, Din, they're sad. Beyond sad. Mournful."

"Yes!" cried Cobb. "They're like two suicide notes stuffed in a glitter bra, they're so damn sad, those tits."

Boba sniffed. "Like two salt tablets on a plank of durasteel."

Din looked between the two men. "So what I'm hearing is that this poor woman has gloomy tits."

Cobb leaned forward and whispered loudly to Din: "I wanna build two tiny coffins and give her tiny tits a tiny funeral."

Din laughed. "And the tits of the green Twi'lek?"

"Round and full and beautiful and bright as the twin suns, friend."

"Not a tit man myself." Cobb opened his mouth to say something, and Din kicked him under the table. "Say word one about Marathel, and I will beat the shit out you."

Cobb raised his empty cup. "Only that she is lovely and not mournful and in no way resembling a pair of salt tablets on a durasteel plank."

Boba held up his empty bottle. "Our boy likes 'em plush."

Boba and Cobb laughed, but Din appeared to have not heard. He was focused on the woven bracelet again, still wrapped around his fingers. He'd meant to give it to her the moment he saw her, but the situation had changed. He hadn't meant to tell her yet that he loved her, but … again, the situation had changed. He had wanted her to get better, to give him time to figure out what the hell he was going to do regarding all three of them, give her some time to figure out what the hell she wanted to do, and frankly … he had been looking forward to testing the waters of a potential rom-com holovid style romance. Of a courtship. His Creed had a standard of courtship practices, ones he'd have to modify as she was an aruetii, but apparently approved of by the Armorer.

Osik, the two of us … did this whole thing backwards. Hopefully, we can start over.

We.

Us.

A clan of three.

Din's breath hitched in his throat, making Cobb look at him as he poured the remainder of the flagon of mash in Din's cup. "What do you have there?"

Din hid the bracelet within his fist, suddenly embarrassed by the cheapness of the thing. "Nothing … just something I picked up for Marathel at the Nevarro market." To hide his discomfort, Din took a swallow from his cup.

"Not nothin'. Let's see it," replied Cobb, holding out his hand. Din reluctantly handed it over, now worried that it was a ridiculous gesture, hardly worthy of the feelings he actually held. Cobb looked it over, held it up to Boba, who nodded with approval. Cobb said, "Well, I can't think of a more appropriate bit of decoration for Marathel's lovely wrist. However, considering it might be some time before she can wear it …" Cobb reached out and took Din's left arm, pushed up his glove, and tied it securely around Din's wrist before covering it back up with his glove. Din pulled his hand back, feeling his left wrist, imagining that his wrist now seemed warmer, like she was there gently holding his wrist. "I can take that knot out when she comes back — when — she comes back." Cobb sighed and reached into his pocket. "I have something else for you. Earlier, before you got back … ugh. I know this is gonna sound weird."

Din tilted his helmet, even though things kind of felt like they were sliding sideways as he did so. "What the shab did you do?"

Cobb pulled out something silvery, round, like an intricately tied ribbon. He turned it around in his hands and held it out like a fragile flower to Din. It is a flower, thought Din. A flower made of … "Her hair?" asked Din, a tremor in his voice.

Cobb looked at the flower in his hands and took a deep breath. "Me and my ma were poor. We weren't even dirt poor, we couldn't even afford dirt, that's how poor we were. No holopads, nothing electronic. Ma would take in any kind of piecework she could: sewing, laundry, you name it. But Ma was also talented like Marathel. She knit amazing sweaters. She was the one you went to if you could afford a wedding dress or an anniversary quilt. She was the one you went to when you wanted a hair wreath." Cobb gently stroked a leaf of the silver flower. "A hair wreath is what poor people made because they couldn't have holos. When someone died, a family member would bring my mother their hair. She would braid it into leaves and flowers, and build a box around it, labeling their hair with names and dates, adding on to it when other family members passed on, for generations. I've seen hair wreaths that went on for a hundred years or more." Cobb looked up at Din; his eyes were moist. "It was how Ma taught me to read and write. I'd practice those names and numbers every night until she was satisfied with my penmanship. Then she taught me how to make flowers. There're only a couple styles I can do well." Cobb reached further across the table and carefully deposited the flower into Din's outstretched hands. "Now, I'm not sayin' anything about what I think Marathel's chances are. And I'm sorry I got familiar enough with her to cut off a lock of her hair without her knowing. But I can't let you have only a couple of holos from a cheap pad as your only remembrance of her."

I have a tiny raft, made by her hands. And a dried yellow flower, thought Din. A curled piece of driftwood, some shells. A bite mark that I will make into a great scar. Her blood and flesh in my helmet. Her blood and flesh on that monstrous hunk of metal in my weapons locker. And now her hair. "How much more of herself will she sacrifice to me?"

"What was that?" asked Cobb.

Din looked up at Cobb. "Was that out loud?"

"Yeah." They both looked down at the flower, Cobb gently holding Din's hands.

"It's beautiful, Cobb, thank you." Din swallowed; he felt like he was trying to swallow an Ewok.

Cobb squeezed his fingers, then drew his hands back. "You better finish that drink, friend."

Din polished off the remainder of the sour mash, sucking air from the bottom of the cup. He carefully turned the cup over in his hand; the straw fell to the tabletop. "Someone took my drink, Cobb."

"We'll find him later and pants him, friend."

"Wizard," mumbled Din, weaving in his chair. He very, very carefully put the flower in the inner pocket of his flight suit, the one with the embroidered Mudhorn.

"Is he fading?" asked Boba with a yawn.

"I think so," replied Cobb. "I'll babysit, Boba, thanks for the drink."

"I can hear you osi'kovids," Din muttered, his head bobbing up and down towards his chest. He was fading, but he wasn't about to admit he was a lightweight with liquor. He hadn't been this drunk in quite a long time. It had been during the Rebellion, as he'd mentioned to Cobb … but he still wasn't willing to admit why.

Boba took both empty bottles; after saluting them both with one of the empties, he went back to the palace. Cobb tapped Din's knee with his foot. "Doing okay, buddy?"

Din, his chin to his chest, mumbled, "I'm great."

"You're toast."

Din's head bobbed up. "Toast? Yeah, toast. Let's get some toast."

"You betcha." Cobb — who was much more of a heavyweight when it came to alcohol — stood up and helped Din out of his chair. Din stumbled; Cobb put one arm around Din's waist. "C'mon, let's go find that toast."

"Marathel's bread only."

Cobb chuckled. "We'll see what we can do."

Don looked down at his feet, then he held up one foot straight out in front of him. "She fixed my boots," Din slurred, pointing at his foot.

Cobb got them walking back into the palace. "She's a talented woman."

"She's a fucking gem," said Din, his heels scuffing against the ground as they slowly walked. Then he whispered loudly, "And I'll bet you that Marathel's tits are much nicer than the green Twi'lek gal's. You know what I wanna do?"

Cobb couldn't stop smiling; a drunk Din could be entertaining. "No idea, friend."

"I want to push those tits apart so I can put my head right in between 'em, and then let 'em go." said Din with a giggle.

"Well, I can't think of a better way to go, Din."

Din stopped walking and stabbed his finger into Cobb's sternum. "Get those thoughts outta your head. She's gonna be my woman."

Cobb moved Din's finger from his chest and got them walking again. "Yes, yes, she is, friend."

"I think the very next morning I knew. Slept there one night and I wake up and she's making me fucking breakfast, I'm there to turn her in and she's cooking for me, wearing my boy tied around her chest and he's dropping cracker crumbs on her bare skin, and I wanted to be a fucking cracker crumb so bad right then … his ear was dragging across her skin, the lucky little shitsnack, have I told you about her skin?" Din didn't wait for an answer before continuing. "I saw her with that frying pan in her hand and my boy curled up against her and I'm thinking, this could be my damn life, I shoulda just dragged her away right then and there, but she was just so damned insistent on me getting those coins and I wasn't going to tell her no on any fucking thing except the one fucking thing that would have made a difference, this fucking helmet …"

Din made moves to pull his helmet off, and Cobb pulled his hands away, saying, "Nope, not doing that, buddy, let's just keep walking."

"That boy of mine calls her Mama already, you know. A boy needs a mama. Isn't that right?"

"Too right, friend."

"I love that little green frog-eating, egg-stealing monster, Cobb. At the time … I wondered what in holy blue fuck I was thinking, taking that boy back. And now … I don't regret it for anything. Just like I don't regret how I feel about Marathel. Just like the Dahl told me to do."

"Wait, what?" asked Cobb, confused. He didn't mention a Dahl talking to him before.

"Rodanthe, she told me …"

"Is that the Dahl?"

Din stopped walking and stabbed his finger into Cobb's sternum again. "Yes, dammit, let me tell the kriffing story! Rodanthe came to me in the night and … she possessed me. Bonded with me. Climbed into my damn brain and told me to love her. I did already, anyway, so … that was easy. Anything Marathel told me, I did. Like I had no fucking control over myself sometimes. Like she was in my damn head, somehow, telling me what to do." Din dropped his hand and began staggering away on his own.

Cobb frowned, trying to link what Marathel had told him earlier, about how she screamed be still, but in her head, towards Din. "Like … when she told you to be still."

"… like what?" Din stopped and leaned against the wall while rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "What were you saying?"

Cobb sighed inwardly. "Nothing. You doing okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay. You and your sour mash — just gotta sleep it off." They had reached Marathel's room, and Din quietly opened the door. The room was dark except for the dim glow of the bedside lamp. Silnima was dozing in the large, padded chair beside the bed, her feet up on the mattress. Grogu was buried deep in the blankets with only one ear sticking out. Din pulled back the blanket to check on the boy while Cobb gently placed his hand on Silnima's shoulder to wake her up.

Silnima rubbed her eyes and yawned. "He hasn't made a peep."

Din remarked, "He's down deep, all right. Thank you, Silnima."

"And you, Sir Mandalorian? Are you … doing better?"

"Sufficiently tippled, as you say, ma'am," said Din, sloppily saluting her.

Silnima arched an eyebrow at Cobb, who whispered, "He's fine."

"Then I'll bid you goodnight." Silnima swept out of the room, patting Din's arm as she went.

Cobb began, "Well, then, I guess …"

Din grabbed Cobb's arm. After a moment, Din whispered, "Stay with me, please … I can't be alone. I need you to stay next to me. Just stay. Please."

Cobb, who had hoped Din would ask, nodded. "I'll stay." Both men wordlessly pulled off their boots. Din crawled into the center of the bed behind Grogu, and Cobb climbed in behind him. Din reached out and turned off the light as Cobb draped his arm over Din's waist.

Din took hold of Cobb's hand. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," whispered Cobb. He interlaced his fingers with Din's gloved hand. Still drunk, Din was close to passing out. He ignored the headspins by using his grip on Cobb's hand, and the scent of Marathel on the pillow to center him. The last thing he heard before he lapsed into unconsciousness was Cobb whispering, "She loves you. She's thinking about how much she loves you right now."

She wasn't. Not at that moment. Marathel had thought for quite some time about Din rushing in like he had, kissing her in the dark, the second time in her life a male had pressed his lips to hers in affection.

The first was when she was a child, and an ap Hunter boy — prettier than any boy had any right to be, with his brown hair and brown eyes and eyelashes twice as long as hers — had kissed her when she had successfully taught him how to tie his shoes. He'd been shamed for it; only Diwhyns kissed anyone — kissing was for babies. But the feeling exhilarated her, and she'd remained sweet on him for quite a long time, even after she'd left the Hold.

His name was Talric.

He was one of the men who had …

She shoved that memory as deep down as she could, ignoring it, relegating it to the deep dark depths of her shriveled soul, desperately trying to remember the pressure of Din's lips, the tickle of his mustache, his warm breath on her face, which meant he had removed his helmet, which he wasn't allowed to do before another, that was what he'd told her, but what he'd actually meant was not within the sight of another.

What were the point of rules, then? she thought. But then, on the other hand, girls were supposed to be virgins when they became Whyns but that wasn't ever quite so, not in the strictest meaning of the term; otherwise, she supposed, every girl would be made a Belwhyn instead. Even she had had actions inflicted on her before she left the Hold, and she was the Bishop's untouchable object of perfection.

Marathel surmised that Din had only kissed her and told her he loved her because she was so close to death again. But back on her planet, he had said to her — what was it? Ner kar'ta, he'd called her. My heart, according to Cobb. And he'd said something else to her, when she was reaching her climax with his fingers inside her, something in his own language. She dug deep into her addled brain, and all she could remember was — oh, what was it? Cyar'e, she remembered that. He hadn't quite told her what that meant, but when she'd told him cwriad meant beloved, he'd said that it sounded like cyar'e, so, good enough for her.

Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum.

That was it.

What did that mean?

She remembered quite well, of course, what she'd said, in her own language: Fi ng'riad, d'lwch fi, chi yd'w fi.

Love me, hold me, I am yours.

She hadn't known anything else to say, she had to say something back, even as overcome as she was by what Din was doing to her, and she was dumb about pretty words, about most things, really. All she knew were the words she had been taught to say when she was to present herself to the Bishop as his Whyn, right before he fully took her for the first time.

Marathel had though a great deal about all those things as she lay on that cot in the tiny room, a droid administering more of the false blood into her vein while Fennec sat beside her, telling her what they were going to tell the Reconstructionists when they got to their destination.

Marathel had also thought at great length about Grogu, and how he had called her Mama. At least, that was what she believed he'd said. Grogu started by saying Ma Mahr, as if he were trying to say my Mahr, just as Din often said my mesh'la. Hearing her little boy screaming nearly tore her apart, but to hear him screaming Mama made her want to drag herself off this cot and chase them both down the ramp so she could sweep them both into her arms. She had never thought that someone calling her Mama would simultaneously make her heart leap with joy and shred itself to nothing.

Yes, Marathel had thought about these things for quite some time. But there was something else she couldn't quite remember, and it was about Din. And it had hurt her, somehow. It was a small thing, but something terribly important. Her mind was broken, she knew, from a lifetime of beatings and from her most recent sufferings. The droid had spoken to Fennec about her massive losses of blood, and something called deoxygenation to her brain. Lasting damage, it had said, and Fennec looked distressed upon hearing this.

Marathel played the scene over and over in her head: Din bursting through the door, shouting at everyone to get out. She had said something — that was unimportant — then Din had turned off the lights and he was kissing her.

She knew that the thing she was forgetting happened before the lights went out. Again, she replayed the moments in her head.

Din bursting through the door, that had to be the correct moment. Did something happen? Did he say something? What was so important about that moment?

He'd shouted Out! Everyone out! He'd sounded like himself, his voice back to that mechanical cadence that his helmet provided, not the melody of his deep voice when his helmet was off, and his words went straight into her ears.

Of course, he looked the same, his appearance never changed other than the removing of various layers of cloth and leather and metal. The weapons were all there. The armor was all there. Nothing was missing.

But it had hurt. Whatever it was had caused her immense pain, but then he was kissing her — which was all she had hoped it would be — saying he loved her — which was all she'd ever wanted him to say, and her mind had forgotten whatever the painful thing was.

Again and again, over and over in her mind. His head, the helmet, his chest, the armor, his arms, the brown jacket, his hands, the gloves.

His hands, the gloves.

You know my hands, these are not the Bishop's hands, he'd said to her.

His hands, the gloves.

What was different about his hands?

The leather gloves. Dark leather and fabric with orange fingers, worn and stained. Were the gloves different?

They were the same gloves from early this morning, so deep in the night, and Grogu had bitten a hole in one of them when she'd asked to see his gums because he wasn't feeling well.

If not the gloves, then … what?

Something … in his hand?

She remembered. The cloth bag in his hand, clutched in his fingers. She knew that bag. That bag had sailed through the air from the fingers of the Captain and into Din's waiting hand. The bag of Aurodium coins. The coins she had sentenced herself to death for, so that they could benefit Din's people. The bag of coins he had told her he was taking to his covert when he had left two days before.

Din still had the bag of Aurodium coins.

He didn't give the coins to his covert.

He lied to me.

He kept them for himself.

It was all for nothing.

Marathel's eyes filled with tears, and she began to cry, and the cries turned into sobs as she curled up on herself. She may be stupid as anything, but she knew what betrayal was. And even though a tiny part of her knew she was being illogical, she was being hysterical, of course there had to be some rational explanation, but her heart hurt too much, her mind was too broken and disjointed to bring it to the surface, and finally the droid gave her a tranquilizer and she fell asleep, where she wouldn't have to think about that bag of coins any longer.