pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C

word count: 2.9K

chapter summary: Din takes a bad decision and makes it worse.

warnings: angst, mention of incest, inbreeding, suicide, infertility, masturbation, English and Mando'a cursing

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

Din stared at Marathel. "When do we …"

"When do we leave?"

Din was unable to speak. Marathel could hear his breathing in the helmet as he continued to stare at her, and she knew that he normally took care to not let his breathing be heard. I have broken him, she thought. I have destroyed his soul, set it afire, burned away any care or affection he could ever have for me, and that is as it should be, but I am sorry I had to hurt him so to do it.

Din swallowed the bile that had risen again in his throat, burning his sinuses. I can't, I can't. Her words seemed to have filled him with a poison that threatened to burn him down to nothing. Never, never, had he heard of such an existence as hers. Anyone else would have died. Anyone else would have killed themselves — should have killed themselves. And she tried, oh she tried, but whatever oversaw this horrible universe, be it the Force, or Frith, or a cruel Maker and Destroyer of Worlds, kept her alive. Alive and beautiful and smart and talented and kind, despite being filled with pain and shame and self-loathing and guilt. And love, for Frith's sake, love, love for Grogu and even for him, because she'd had to love him to empty out her guts like this to him, to share her agony in the hopes of …

"Bounty Hunter?"

He looked back up at Marathel, and there was concern in her voice and on her face, concern for him; she'd just described how she'd survived the most horrific existence possible, and she was concerned for him?

As he stared at her, one part of his mind continued the litany of I can't I can't, but another part of his mind was desperately trying to remind him that he loved her and nothing else mattered.

But it did.

It did matter.

It mattered to him that she hated his Creed. His Creed, the one thing that some days kept him going, that made his own life worthwhile. It mattered to him that she believed her Hold and his covert were alike. It mattered to him that she believed his Creed worked at the expense of others. It mattered that she believed he'd used his Creed to hurt her. It mattered that she believed that her … birth circumstances made a difference in his feelings for her.

It mattered, because as much as he would hate to admit it, there was the possibility that she could be right.

Marathel watched Din's gloved hands clench into fists. She was suddenly struck with horrible anxiety; she was reminded of her dream — the Bishop disguised as Din, stalking towards her with the intent to do her harm. It frightened her to see those fists, because she had just spent however long telling him the most disgusting and degrading things, and then she had the audacity to make a comparison of her circumstances to his Creed, to a man whose hands could kill her as easily as caress her. That was an unforgivable thing that she did. And she did it because … to her it was the truth. Her truth. And right now, that was the only truth she cared about.

Marathel heard him swallow and take a shaky breath, but he still said nothing, and his visor pointed towards a point over and beyond her shoulder. She leaned forward, and softly said, "Din?"

"I can't," he softly uttered, shaking his head.

Marathel nodded, and leaned back against the wall, and she went back to looking at the night sky as Din turned and walked out of the room.

As he left, he practically crashed into Cobb, who grabbed him by the wrists, muttering, "No, you don't … don't you dare …"

"Leave off, Cobb …" hissed Din as he worked to twist his hands away. He almost succeeded, but he was distracted and upset, and Cobb got a tight hold of him again.

"Don't you fucking dare walk away from her! She needs you right now!"

Looking past Cobb's shoulder, Din could see a weeping Silnima, curled against the wall. Din stopped struggling. "I can't, Cobb."

"You better, if you love her like you say you do," replied Cobb. He released Din's hands. Din took a step back. He looked at Cobb for a moment, and then he turned and continued down the corridor. Cobb sighed deeply. Silnima had paused her crying to see Din walk away, and she was wracked with fresh sobs.

Down in the courtyard, ten feet below Marathel's window, Fennec and Boba sat on the hard-packed ground. Fennec leaned back against Boba, and his arms, wrapped around her, gave her another squeeze. "I hate it when I'm right," muttered Fennec, and Boba said nothing, but kissed the top of her head.

Silnima went to the kitchen to cry in private. Cobb stood just outside Marathel's room, watching her watch the sky. She's too quiet, too still. She only lost it a little there, the rest will go soon, and I think it will be like a Sandcrawler exploding.

Cobb walked up to Marathel, and reached up to gently pull on her arm and her leg. "No, don't," she said, twisting away, but he kept pulling at her. "You shouldn't be touching me," muttered Marathel.

"You ain't got no cooties, now come down here." He gave her another tug, and she let him lift her down from the windowsill. He pulled the chair aside to pick up her blanket, and he wrapped her tightly in it. As Cobb sat back down, he hauled her onto his lap, picking up her feet to tuck them at his hip. Marathel sat stiffly in his arms, looking down at him. Cobb looked up at her, and he placed his hands on her cheeks, his thumbs softly stroking the hair at her temples. He whispered, "I'm so sorry, honey." His warm hazel eyes bored into her silver ones as he continued to stroke her hair, and finally her eyes filled with tears, and she wilted against him, into his arms, and her head fell to his shoulder with a wail.

Din walked all the way to the landing tunnel, straight to the landing gear of the Crest. He stepped behind the landing gear, in darkness and out of sight, stripped off his helmet, and vomited into the sand. Twice. He dry-heaved, spit, and swallowed, but the sickness was still inside, an insidious toxic feeling. Tears threatened, but he kept them back by sheer force of will and replaced his helmet. His Creed. His strength, his salvation. He walked around to the side of the ship and slapped the ramp control.

Din walked up into his ship, his mind whirling. He couldn't go into his tiny quarters because that was where she had lain, dying. He couldn't go into the cockpit because he'd dreamed of her up there. He couldn't go into the fresher because he'd masturbated to thoughts of her in there. Her blood had been tracked over every square inch of this ship. Her blood was in the metal that made his helmet. His Creed was now tainted by her.

Marathel.

Never had another person uprooted Din's life in such a volatile manner. He had lost both his parents, he had been adopted into a warrior religion, he had lost his mentor, he had gained… well, a son. He was a murderer, an assassin, a mercenary, a bounty hunter, and now an ersatz father to a little green Jedi, which, in the scheme of things, should have been enough excitement.

But no, he had to get tangled up with a woman, and not just a woman, this woman. Not another Mandalorian, not another mercenary (although, to be fair, Xi'an had turned him off from ever attempting that again), not even the quiet and lovely Omera. A Mandalorian — even one from another sect — would be understanding of his Creed. At least Omera had been respectful as she questioned his Creed. To hear Marathel say she didn't give a shit about it upset him greatly. How dare she? How dare she attack the core of who I am? How could she be that cruel?

He pulled off his helmet and dropped it on the floor. He kicked the crate into the center of the floor — near the divot he had placed there — and sat, leaning over, his elbows on his knees. His misery was too familiar; it was the same as when he first realized what the Dilimgau was, how it had been used. He thought he might howl now as he had then, but instead, no sound left his lips other than the breath from the bottoms of his lungs. He hugged himself tightly to keep his chest from exploding open with the pain.

Why are you crying, son?

I can't, Father.

What's got your thermals in a twist, kid?

I can't, buir.

And he couldn't. He couldn't fathom how to wrap his head around everything he had just heard. He was an engineer's son, although he was a bounty hunter and an assassin, a murderer and a criminal. He still had the mind of an engineer, and he wanted so much to fix this, and he had no idea how.

How do I find the root cause of this kind of pain? How do I compartmentalize her suffering? Her cruel words to me? Her background, the fact that she's …

He couldn't bring his mind to form the words, the truth about her that he'd suspected yet not allowed himself to believe about her familial relationship with the Bishop. The man who was her father, her grandfather, going back for who knew how many generations, was also supposed to be her …

Don't say lover, don't even think it!

… sexual partner and the father of her children. That was her purpose in life, to be an incubator for his progeny.

Thank Frith she was sterile. That happened, he'd heard, in clans such as hers, as if nature abhorred the practice and made it self-destruct. It was taboo among the Mandalorians, obviously, but very taken especially seriously in his covert, which was small and only had a few families. Relationships were severed once consanguinity was discovered, and he'd heard of pregnancies being terminated on the rare occasion it occurred. It was another reason that bringing in foundlings was such an honored tradition, although this particular reason was not spoken out loud.

But there had been one in his covert. It wasn't found out until the child was half-grown and near the age of taking the helmet. Two young men had finally revealed that the child's mother, their blood aunt, had molested and abused them when they were younger, and this child was the result.

The mother and child were drummed out of the covert, her helmet confiscated, stripped of her Mandalorian heritage. Din had struggled with whether he would feel sorry for the child or be disgusted by its existence. He had asked his buir about his conflict, and he had responded that all three of the children deserved pity regardless, for none of it had been their fault. But then his buir said, if you can find it in your heart to have a grain of sand's worth of pity for the aunt, for she was sick of mind, heart, and soul … then you'll be a better man than I could ever be, kid.

The idea that inbreeding was the preferred practice of continuing the population was one of the foulest things Din had ever heard of. The possibility that she could have brought forth another generation was monstrous to him. But truly, it was not her fault, for what else did she know?

Remember the first day? The second? Those days when you were still unaware of the depths of her ignorance? She didn't know what a ship was. What planets and stars were. How can you blame her for what she had no way of knowing?

He knew he had to pity her for what she suffered inside that Hold. He had to pity her for the circumstances of her birth, and how she would continue to suffer because of it. If he could pity her for those things, then he had to find a grain of sand's worth of pity for her ignorance of his Creed. She didn't understand because she couldn't.

If Marathel would allow it, I will teach her my Creed, why it's so important to me, why it is so essential to the core of my being. If she cannot, or will not, then I know I will have done my best by my Creed.

I don't always have to like her, but I must try to love her as best I can. And if I love her, then nothing else matters.

I'm so sorry, my ma'mwsh ha'laa.

Din finally collected himself enough to return to the palace. He had abandoned her, thought only of his own pain and not hers, and he had to try to make it right. He fucked up again, he was only human, and he didn't know what the hell he was doing. He still didn't know how to process at least half of what Marathel said, nor could he process half of the conflicting emotions he felt.

He had never heard anything so vile before, and he had been an assassin for the Empire. He was a murderer for a living, and hearing what Marathel endured after going through that door made him physically sick. But he had to try, for her sake, to help her continue to endure, because he …

He stepped up to the door, hearing Cobb's voice, low, soothing. Din moved into the doorway to see Marathel, wrapped tightly in her blanket, cradled on Cobb's lap. She clutched at his neck, weeping. His arms held her tight as he gently rocked her. Cobb's face also held tear-tracks, and he glared at Din, as if to say, this is where you should be, you should have been the one to hold her, comfort her, tell her that none of it mattered. But you couldn't, so I did, and there is no helmet between me and her. Cobb held Din's eyes as he kissed Marathel's cheek, keeping his lips against her soft skin much longer than was necessary before dropping his face to her shoulder. Her hand went up into Cobb's hair, her fingers twisting in the strands.

Suddenly it all made sense. Her drawing away. Her telling him to let her go. Her inability to return words of love. Her hatred of his Creed. Cobb's insistence on being alone with her, keeping Din away as long as possible. So it's true, thought Din. You son of a bitch. Guess what, friend? You can have her. You deserve each other.

The thought flew through his head unbidden, shocking him, but not enough to shake off his anger. He ground his teeth until his jaw ached.

No, no. Strike that. You don't get her. I don't get her.

No one does.

She's going back.

Din snapped, "We leave tomorrow morning." Marathel's head came up and half-turned to him, her face red from weeping, but she still was able to blush, infuriating Din even more. He spun and left her room, heading to his room and back to Grogu. As he passed the kitchen, he saw Silnima, her face in her hands. He ignored her sobbing and continued down the corridor. He entered his room and his eyes fell on Grogu, his pride, his joy. He was that boy's father in all ways that mattered. Like Olba was for Marathel. Not that it did any good. No one protected those children. No one protected those women. Let them die out, let that horrible place fall out of existence. And if Marathel wants to go back to die out with them, then I'll take her back, and gladly let her go.

Unmanarall and its sick, perverted culture — including Marathel —wasn't his battle. Grogu was his battle. His Creed was his battle.

Din crawled into bed, carefully placing a protective hand on Grogu's tiny chest, feeling the small beskar rondel under the little shirt. A shirt Marathel had made. His Mama.

Grogu's going to lose his Mama, thought Din, a fresh pang shooting through his heart.

He's young. He'll forget her. I will too, in time.

He wanted to sleep for a thousand years. Maybe that would be long enough to forget her. But sleep did not come for a long time, not until after he had — several times — replayed and dissected and diagrammed every word she had said to him tonight, every inflection in her voice … and then her ugly words about his Creed, and the sight of her hand tangled in Cobb's hair. Every root cause analysis he tried to effect had a different beginning and a different course of action he should take, muddying his rational thought. Exhausted, confused, heartbroken, Din finally fell asleep. His last waking thought was wondering why he could hear singing, and the smell of baking bread.