Fic resides at the same username on AO3. This tumblr began as a place to flail around about Mad Max: Fury Road, expanded into a place to flail around about other things too. I tend to reblog Star Wars, Star Trek, Inception, Good Omens, Our Flag Means Death, and who knows what else. Occasional ruminations on life and reblogs of non-fandom things that made me smile.
Apparently the thing for writers to do these days is have a pinned post at the top of your blog, so people can find your work. Here's mine!
Somehow I have written several dozen stories in the worlds of Mad Max: Fury Road, Star Wars OT, Star Wars ST, The Mandalorian, Good Omens, Our Flag Means Death, and (wow, years ago now) Sherlock.
Everything's here on AO3. It's almost entirely SFW and you'll find lots of genfic, a little romance, and even a couple character/reader fics because why not. Some are silly, some heartfelt, some serious or sad. Many are gentle. A few are not.
I hope you'll find something you like there. Thanks for reading, if you do!
@bethagain suggested this for a ficlet: If you feel like it: Carson, Bo-Katan, and the Rising Phoenix!
*
To Jetpacks
“So what would it take for me to be able to have a turn with one of those jetpacks?” Carson Teva asked, sliding Bo-Katan another round at Adelphi’s bar. She’d come to this New Republic outpost looking for Din and Grogu to discuss matters on Mandalore, but they weren’t due back for another half a day. Cue hanging out at the bar and striking up a conversation with Teva, who Din had described as not half bad, all things considered. They’d swapped war stories and reminisced on taking out Imps, but this question took her by surprise.
Bo took the pint of ale, but gave Teva a skeptical look. “You’re all right, but it’ll never happen. The Rising Phoenix is sacred to our people. We’re not about to let people have rides on them like some kind of carnival. Controlling them takes years of training, and it’s dangerous. More difficult than piloting, by a long way.”
Teva gave her sad, soulful eyes and took a drink of his ale. “Fair enough. Just looks like - well, an awful lot of fun.”
Bo-Katan cracked a smile. “Yeah, it can be when it isn’t life or death.” She considered. The man really did have the most hangdog expression. A thought struck her. “You know, Moff Gideon’s cronies had a few. They’re poor quality, nothing like as good as real Mandalorian craftsmanship… but if an Imp could figure out how to fly with them, I’m sure you could make it work. Tell you what. I’ll see if we salvaged any where I go back home. If one’s left, it’s got your name on it.”
“I’ll drink to that!” Teva declared, grinning broadly. “A toast to jetpacks!”
Yeah, sure, what the hell. Their glasses clinked together. “A toast to jetpacks!” Bo snorted into her ale, and decided privately that if the pilot did manage to get airborne with a junker jetpack, she’d buy a week of rounds on her.
White clouds filled the air, mist from the Living Waters, steam from the cryoforge. Familiar footsteps rang out on the ancient stones and Din Djarin stepped into her forge-room.
She set down her hammers, regarding him with curiosity. It had been years since she had seen him last, ever since his son received his full armor and struck out into the galaxy on his own. Djarin walked a little slower now, right leg dragging with a slight arthritic limp, but he still cast an imposing figure with his beskar well-maintained.
She spoke the words of greeting. He dipped his helmet in recognition.
"What brings your journey back to Mandalore of old?"
"I wish to make arrangements," he said, and his voice carried the hallmarks of age that were otherwise hidden beneath his beskar.
She nodded. He was human. Yes, that would be appropriate.
"What are your wishes?"
"I have spoken with Grogu," he said. "We do not know what path he will walk, but if he takes a foundling, my armor may be passed on and used to protect them." He touched his right pauldron, his index finger tracing a border around the mudhorn signet. "But he has requested to keep this pauldron, should the Tribe allow."
"It will still remain with him?"
"Yes. In memory." He lowered his hand, his shoulders dropping slightly.
"This is permitted," she said. "Beskar belongs to the Mandalorian people. Your son is Mandalorian. I know he will treat it with honor."
"Thank you," he said. "I am at ease." But he did not turn to leave.
"There is something else. Your leg troubles you."
"It does. It's only age. A lucky problem to have."
"A problem of luck and skill both," the Armorer said, a touch of pride tingeing her voice. It was not very long ago that she knew no remaining Mandalorians touched by age. "I will make adjustments. You need a cuisse that is lighter, yet supportive as well."
He bowed his head in thanks, removing the armor from his right thigh and handing it to her reverently. "I would be honored." He knelt slowly, carefully.
She gazed upon him, then adjusted the cryoforge, its blue flames glowing through the white haze. She dropped the armor into the licking flames and raised her hammer and tongs, and she wondered if this would be their final time in the forge together. The idea brought an ineffable sense of a future grief, a shepherd losing a long-loyal member of the flock.
But that time was not now. The Living Waters within the forge roiled and steamed, and she spoke into the mist, her voice strong, certain, absolving. Shepherding.
The meiloorun tree at the Djarin homestead grows and changes through the years. Bittersweet story of Din and Grogu's time together, with a Rotta cameo. 3100 words. I cried a bunch writing it.
--
A tree knows much.
It knows the taste of earth and water, nitrogen, carbon, oxygen, hydrogen. It knows the sensation of light dancing upon its leaves, of wind caressing bud and branch. It senses vibration carried through the air and soil. It knows the passage of time slow and swift both, years stretching onward beneath the sky. It knows the song of the great forest, the pulse that flows through all things that grow and live and fruit and die.
It knows its home.
--
A young meiloorun sapling takes root in Nevarran lava soil. The world and the tree are both young, and an abundance of nutrients lies beneath the jagged outer crust, waiting to be used if only water can be found. But beings scurry back and forth across the surface, and vibrations of digging and laying of pipe reach the tree’s fragile roots. The freed water is cold and crisp and sweet, and the tree grows, tasting sunlight.
Some of the beings become familiar, their footfalls, the vibrations of their voices, the touch of their hands on the bark of the tree providing identity. One is small and growing, like the tree; the other has the heavy settled footsteps of a strong and sturdy adult. The tree listens to them with great curiosity, especially when the small one lays a hand upon the trunk and the tree feels the song of the great forest in the child’s touch.
--
Grogu plays beneath the meiloorun tree, watching the patterns of the sunlight streaming through the slender leaves. Scattered light dances over the rocky-edged pond, gleaming on the surface of the water. He tries to chase a dot of light and it flutters away from him in the breeze.
The light vanishes, replaced by solid shadow. Grogu burbles a little sound of annoyance, then tilts his head to look up at his father. He points to the shadowed pond, trying to explain to Din that he’s interrupted his game.
His father crouches down and the sunlight returns, dancing once again. Din tilts his head to watch as Grogu splashes back and forth, trying to capture the light.
“A game?” he asks.
Grogu nods as the wind stills and the light freezes in place, outlined by the leaves of the tree. A-ha! He charges forward, water splashing everywhere, and stands triumphantly in the pond squinting in the sunlight.
Din chuckles, reaching down and patting Grogu on the head. “Good job, kid. You got it.”
--
Grogu notices the problem with the tree first. He stares up at it, then rests his palm against its trunk. Its light in the Force has dimmed a little, flickering in his mind. He senses bright pinpoints of other life taking from the tree. He frowns. It feels wrong.
He goes and gets his father, holding his leg. “Tree?”
“It’s an infestation, I think,” his father says. He studies it closely while walking around its trunk, brushing a gloved hand against the branches and the yellowing leaves. He plucks something off a leaf and brings it down to Grogu to inspect. A sturdy insect. Grogu sees wiggling legs, a big head with mandibles for chewing, a spiky little tail. He leans forward and swallows it whole. It tastes spicy-sharp.
Din chuckles. “Let’s hope it’s not poisonous. Though we haven’t found anything yet that upsets your stomach.” He rests his hands on his hips, and Grogu can feel him concentrating. “We’ll have to see the gardener in town. I don’t know much about plants.”
Grogu looks up at him curiously, then points at his mouth, then his stomach. “Eat!” he says proudly.
“That’ll work for the bigger ones, kid, but there’s probably something we have to do to take out the eggs.”
Oh. Grogu nods, understanding, then leaps up and snatches another insect off the trunk to shove into his mouth.
They take one of the blurrg into town, where Din leads them to the gardener at the edge of the city. Her property sprawls with shrubs and bushes and trees, little pillowy gray-green plants in small pots, big spiky things in pots bigger than Grogu. The Force feels rich and green here. It makes him think of Sorgan and Nal Hutta, where the plants were so lush and brilliant. He wonders if it will ever feel that way at their home.
His father explains the problem with the tree. Yellow leaves, the chewing insects. The gardener nods. She teaches them that some insects are good, but too many leave the tree out of balance. Din buys nets and a special spray, tools to keep the insects back under control to a healthy level. And Grogu knows that he'll help out too. His stomach grumbles, ready to assist.
--
The tree flourishes, the chewing insects kept in check. The pond’s moisture filters into the surrounding soil and new plants begin to arise, neighbors to the tree. Mosses, scrub grass, lichens. The tree can taste their connections to the soil as it makes its own. It grows stronger, sending out new leaves, new twigs, new branches to shelter the beings below who have brought it back to health.
--
Grogu perches near the top of the meiloorun tree, tongue sticking out in concentration so far that it brushes against the metal of his training helmet. He pulls it back into his mouth, smacking his lips to mute the taste of metal.
It has taken time, but the once spindly branches have grown thicker and stronger into sturdy boughs. The tree now stands well above the height of their homestead, and the leaves are lush and green, creating a curtain that keeps him well hidden. It’s a good place to keep watch. And to practice other things.
He keeps one hand on the trunk for balance. His father should be coming back this way any moment.
There. He’s not used to seeing the top of his father’s helmet, but the gleam of sunlight on the beskar makes him easy to spot. Grogu waits until Din approaches a little closer --
He leaps!
Through the Force and his training, he hits Din’s shoulder like a blast. Beskar clangs on beskar. Din grunts and takes a huge step forward, brought off-balance, but he manages to stay upright. He flings his arms up to grab Grogu. “Ha!” he gasps, winded. “Good one, kid. That would have knocked over anyone else.”
Grogu laughs, squirming out of Din’s arms and dropping to the ground. He’s too big to be held like that now. “I tried,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re tough, old man.”
“Still younger than you,” Din scoffs.
Grogu groans. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s true,” Din points out. He tilts his head. “That was good form. Enemies will always underestimate you for being small, but this kind of attack is a good way to take advantage of your size.”
“I could do even better with a Rising Phoenix,” Grogu wheedles. “Right?” He looks up at Din hopefully.
Din’s wearing his helmet, but Grogu can see the way his father’s eyebrow arches anyway. “Well... maybe it’s time to pay a visit to the Shriek-Hawks.”
Grogu leaps up in excitement, ricocheting off Din’s shoulder and back into the branches of the tree. Din grunts. “You might be small, but you used to be smaller,” he calls, rubbing his shoulder. Grogu just hooks his legs over a branch and sits there, swinging his feet in delight.
He should try to be serious. If they’re really going to see the Shriek-Hawks about a Rising Phoenix, Grogu knows he’ll need to earn it. There will be trials, training, drills. But for now he sits in the tree, giddy as anything.
--
The training Phoenix is hard to work with by design. The Shriek-Hawk trainers explained to him and the other foundlings that the sensitivity of a fully functional jetpack would likely get them killed without dedicated practice. It was what Grogu had expected, but that doesn’t make it less frustrating. He’s already crashed it twice today, even though it only gets up a few meters off the ground.
Still, he’s determined. They made this one especially for him and his small size. He has to get this right. He gets up before Din and practices flying past the blurrgs, trying to make the jetpack obey the instructions he gives it through his gauntlet, his movements, his balance. The wind buffets against his robes and armor. For a moment he’s in the air flying suspended and free, his heart and mind fully attuned to the Phoenix --
And then he bobbles his hand on a current of wind and the Phoenix banks straight down.
He flails, kicking out and scrambling his hands, caught in an instant of pure panic as the ground rushes toward him.
But the Force is there too, flowing around him like the wind, and he leans into it, steadying his heartbeat and his reactions. He breathes. Shifts his hand, tilts it just so, speaks to the Phoenix.
It obeys, swooping him up out of his fall. He lets out a sigh of relief until he realizes he’s hurtling towards the meiloorun tree. He braces himself and manages to hit only a few branches before catching his hands around one, coming to a stop with a jerk as leaves flutter to the ground. He swings back and forth on the branch for a second, feet dangling, before he manages to clamber up onto the branch into a sitting position.
Grogu tries to catch his breath. Okay. Maybe he can see now why his dad held off on this for so long. And why his dad has never seemed the most skilled with the Rising Phoenix. This is hard.
He leans against the trunk of the tree, looking down at the pond, and decides maybe it’s time for a little break.
He’s about to hop down to the pond by using the Force when something in the green swaying leaves catches his eye. A burst of orange and fiery red, glowing in the early morning sun. His eyes widen.
It’s a fruit!
He reaches out, cupping his hand carefully around it, testing the rind for ripeness. The meiloorun hangs heavy in his palm, looking just as good as the best ones in the market.
“Wizard,” he says softly, and pulls it free.
His stomach rumbles. He hasn’t had breakfast yet. But this -- the first fruit from the tree -- he knows it deserves to be shared.
He leaps down to the ground much more gracefully than he would have had he used the jetpack. It’s but a quick walk to the cabin, and he opens the doors, looking for Din.
He finds his father brewing caf, just pouring hot water over the ground beans. Grogu’s nose wrinkles up. Even through his helmet, the stuff still smells awful. He wonders if he’ll ever like it himself, but doubts it.
“Look,” he says, holding it out.
“It’s a meiloorun,” Din says, nonplussed. Then he pauses. “Wait. Is that --?”
“It’s from our tree,” Grogu says proudly.
“Well,” says Din, his voice unexpectedly rough, “that’s something.”
“Come on! Let’s share it. Out here, in the sun.”
Din laughs. “Who are you, and what have you done with my kid?”
“I mean it.” He heads back out to the pond, finding a seat on his favorite flat rock. He sets the precious fruit beside him and takes off his training Phoenix, shrugging his shoulders. That feels better. It’s always hard getting used to a new piece of armor, no matter how much he has looked forward to it.
Din joins him, finding a seat in the morning shade. It takes him a moment to get down to the ground and get comfortable. Longer than it did once. He reaches out to take the meiloorun, testing its weight between both hands. “Looks good.”
“I remember when we visited the gardener,” Grogu says.
“You remember that?”
“Of course.” He shrugs. “She said it takes years for these trees to bear fruit.” Din nods. “And our tree was young when we moved here.”
Din nods again, looking at him steadily.
“It’s just --” Grogu tries to find the words. It’s hard, as hard as controlling a jetpack. Maybe harder. “We’re lucky, aren’t we? To be here long enough to see this.”
He thinks of a life on the run, hiding his powers in darkness, the vast loneliness and cruelty the galaxy can hold -- and he thinks of his buir, fighting for him year after year after year, fighting to create a place of safety for him. And he has. And now their tree, once a slender sapling, stands strong and proud and bearing fruit, sheltered and sheltering both.
“We are lucky,” Din echoes softly. He reaches down and pulls out his vibroblade, cutting through the fruit's rind and splitting it in half. He hands one half back to Grogu.
Grogu lifts his helmet, resting it on his lap. Grogu raises the fruit and slurps some up. Sweet, tangy juice fills his mouth, the fruit’s flesh a delicious jelly. It’s so much better than the ones he’s had from the markets. He closes his eyes and savors every bit of the mouthful.
He looks up to see his father lowering his helmet after scooping out a portion. Din swallows. “Thank you. It’s… perfect.”
“Yeah,” Grogu says, taking another bite. “Thanks for sharing it with me.” They eat the rest of the fruit in peaceful silence, juice sticky on their gloves, as the blurrgs make their morning rumbles and the breeze flutters the leaves on the tree. The Force sings around them, fixing this moment in Grogu’s mind: the flavor, the scent, his feet at the water’s edge, the breeze against his face, the shade of the tree above, and his father, at his side.
--
The tree’s fruit returns year after year, plump bodies ripening when the days grow long and the sunlight is fierce and the lava flows quieten. The first year the fruits are few and quickly eaten by the beings who keep the homestead. The second year the fruits begin to multiply. The tall being and the small one eat many fresh, but they also bring their creatures to the shade to eat what falls upon the ground, and they collect many to save and preserve for later.
But they are not always there to collect the fruit, and the meiloorun has other visitors: beings who come to watch over the creatures in their pen, small animals skittering over the stones, insects buzzing and eating what is left behind. The seeds find shelter in the stones at the water’s edge, and as the summers pass the seedlings begin to rise.
--
The tree is now one of many. Younger, stronger trees stand in a shaded grove, their leaves a rustling voice within the breeze, their branches fine and strong and lissome. They will stand for many years, their green a lushness against the lava stones. The tree is comforted in being amongst its kind, though it is now shriveled and wizened, with only the smallest crown of leaves adorning its twisted branches. A single meiloorun hangs from its lowest branch, its last effort.
Soon will come the time of ending. But death is not the end for a tree; the flying things will drill into the hardened wood to make nests for their offspring, the boring-beetles will find shelter in the trunk, the fungi will begin the long slow work of digesting the wood. The tree has no fear nor sorrow for what is to come. It knows that endings are only new beginnings.
There comes the roar of engines, the smells of fuel and ozone. The tree knows them less and less now in its final summers, but still it remembers returning ships.
Vibration, pressure, chemical changes, shifts in light, the mysterious hum of the greater forest: they combine into knowledge and familiarity. The tree knows the ones approaching. It has known them for a very long time.
The small one walks slowly, a wooden stick tapping beside his footsteps. The large one’s vastness undulates against the stones and moss and grasses. The large one stops first, granting the small one the last few steps to the black stone cairn, sheltered here within the grove beside the pond. The day these stones were laid was countless summers past. The tree remembers the scent of metal strange and pure, its residue translated through the soil; it remembers many footsteps on the stones, and words spoken into the winter wind and slow soft rain.
“It’s good to see you again.” The small one’s voice has changed over the long years, once young and uncertain, then strong and hale and hearty, now creaking with age. The tree knows how this feels too. The small one rests his hand against the stones of the cairn, perhaps remembering the being who used to stride these paths with him so long ago.
“All is well,” the small one says. He is quiet for a moment. “But I will not take another foundling,” he says. “That time for me has passed. Vi kelir cuyir tome tug'yc nusujii, buir.”
He bows his head until it touches the stones. The sound of metal on stone is soft, but rings out sweetly.
The small one returns to the side of the large one. “Time runs so swiftly now. I am glad to see him once more,” says the small one. “Thank you for coming with me.”
“Of course,” says the large one. “I’ll always be grateful for what he did for me. For both of us. I've never forgotten."
“It’s good to remember. These were happy times.” The small one rests his hand against the old tree, and the song of the great forest swells, rich and real and brilliant, sunbeams and cold clear water and velvet loam, bud and leaf unfurling and blossoms in the sweetest kindest spring. The tree’s last tiny leaves shiver with a gentle joy, though the breeze has stilled.
“Look,” says the large one. “The first fruit of summer.” He reaches up to the old tree and pulls down the ripe meiloorun.
An ending for the tree, or a new beginning: a tree knows much, but perhaps not this. Perhaps it is not to be known.
“Would you like to share it, old friend?”
“Some things were meant to be shared.”
The two old friends sit at the water’s edge within the sheltered grove. They share the fruit together, and the seeds fall into the soil below, waiting for their time to begin.
-------------------------------------
(Notes: Vi kelir cuyir tome tug'yc nusujii, buir translates to We will be together again soon, Father in Mando'a.
The tree is confirmed to be a meiloorun in Star Wars: The Mandalorian Visual Dictionary.)
i got these knockoff boots online and instead of the brand name on the tag they have the name of an apparently nonexistent martin scorsese movie??? what the fuck
this post led to a series of events that had martin scorsese himself reacting to his alleged movie goncharov and it has less than 400k notes almost 3 years later?
There was a distinct lack of approval in her statement. Due to the circumstances or the evaluation of the new Mand'alor's character, Din was uncertain. He sat patiently on the bench, his hands resting on his knees, as she inspected and stowed her tools for the remainder of the evening. "I've only just met him," Din confessed.
"Tell me your impressions."
He didn't immediately respond. Instead, he gathered his thoughts. "He's young. Inexperienced. Quick to assert authority. Slow to listen."
She made a vague sound of agreement, encouraging him to continue as she closed the cabinet doors. "Do you believe he can lead us?"
No. But it was not an answer he was ready to express. He'd been wrong about people before. There was much in the galaxy that still surprised him. Could he reliably judge on so little information? "It's too early to tell. His actions will speak for themselves."
"He may have little opportunity."
"He's already been challenged?" The turnover was dizzying. How could they continue the process of rebuilding with doubts so pervasive? Would this mean another civil war?
"At first light."
Din sighed.
"Perhaps now is the time to tell you it was I who called you home."
Superman’s sheer anger over Billy Batson’s situation is a sight to behold. Batman and Robin get away with it because he knows it’s the world’s best internship and that Bruce is willing to put out all the stops to protect him. But Billy? He doesn’t have anyone looking out for him. And that pisses off Superman more than anything.
these few pages are some of my favourite in comic book history. So good. For anyone wondering what the next few pages look like, here you go:
This is a bigger deal than some of you might think, because Superman is one of the heroes in the DC Universe who keeps his secret identity pretty damn secret, because as probably the most powerful and influential person on earth, a lot of people do not wish him well - and would jump at the chance to hold people dear to him as leverage.
Yet, he trusts this poor, scared little kid. To comfort him, and entrust him with his biggest secret - just as Billy did for him.
2. if din gets in a bed with blankets does he remove his armor and get under the covers or lay on top of the blankets like he’s in prison
3. does din miss being a child and getting snuggled up under a big comfy blanket without any armor
4. is din completely unable to sleep unless theres beskar digging into his skin
5. is din ever scared one of his five billion worn weapons will be set off in his sleep
6. Would there ever be circumstances that would permit din to remove his armor (save for the helmet of course), take off the flight suit, and put on a set of satin pajamas and sleep under a big fluffy comforter.
7. when was the last time din slept in an actual bed that wasnt the cot on the crest or his twin sized mattress on nevarro
8. Does he have sciatica from sleeping in chairs/sitting up
You got me thinking... Does Din own a blanket? Does Din own anything besides weapons, armor, and tools to repair his ship?
Ended up with a li'l character study of the cabin on Nevarro. Sharing because, why not!
-
In the kitchen, there are two plates. Two bowls. Two cups for drinking. One is sized for tiny hands.
A cupboard keeps clothes neat and dust-free. He owns three shirts: one to wear, one to change into, and one extra for days when sweat or blood soaks through. There are three pairs of leggings and three flightsuits in the same rotation. One pair of soft trousers for days in hyperspace--or, now, times when he doesn't need to leave the cabin.
For the child, the cupboard holds two spare tunics, underthings, and one old shirt that used to be Din’s. It’s worn and fraying at the hem, and it’s Grogu’s favorite thing to sleep in. When the cabin’s closed up tight and the rest of Nevarro and the wider galaxy are locked outside, that shirt envelops the child in softness as he dreams.
Against one wall of the cabin is a locker for weapons.
There is one toolbox. There is a use for everything inside.
There is one spare pair of shoes.
There is a little bed for Grogu and a larger cot for Din.
There are exactly five things in the cabin that they don’t actually need.
There are cookies.
There is soap that makes rich lather and smells like flint.
There is very good caf.
And on each of their beds is the fluffiest blanket, a small one for Grogu and a larger one for Din. On those nights when the cabin’s locked up tight and the security system’s on and the rest of Nevarro and the rest of the galaxy are locked outside, Din will sleep in just his underlayers, wrapped in soft down and fleece. And sometimes Grogu will sneak over, the too-long sleeves of his favorite nightshirt dragging on the floor, and climb in underneath that blanket, too.
A visiting friend from Europe ( more about him later) asked, I dunno, Chat GPT? about breweries in the area. The AI invented a brewery in the center of the town, complete with a photo of the building (quite imposing) and a brand name. All of it does not exist; the brewery, the building, the street, the beer, not in town, not near town, and did not for the 13 years i live here...and I'm certain, before. Unless it's in a different dimension.
I feel compelled to add: Google's AI thing has started telling me local restaurants don't exist. Often right next to a link to the actual website of the actual restaurant which I know for certain actually exists because it's in the neighborhood where I actually live.
Anxiety arrived with the downpour. The rain pelted the newly repaired roof and thunder boomed in the distance. His unease grew as darkness settled and Grogu could no longer see the clouds. He lingered by the living room window, the metal blinds still cracked, his gaze cast outward toward the pond. Lightening flashed, momentarily blinding him. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the brightness behind his lids to fade. When he opened his eyes again, there was no more to see than before. The idea of stepping away only fueled his unexplained apprehension. As turbulent as the weather had become, the force was calm.
"Time for bed, kiddo."
Grogu didn't budge or show any signs of hearing his father.
"Hey."
Finally, he reluctantly turned.
Din interpreted his son's downturned ears and lackluster eyes. He put a hand on Grogu's shoulder, turning him further away from the window. With the other, he flicked the slats completely closed. Grogu responded by emitting a mournful whine.
"It's okay," Din reassured him as the rain intensified. The showers escalated into a deluge as the sound of thunder rumbled closer and longer. The crack of a nearby lightning strike seemed to shake the house and rainfall rushed with the sound of a river.
"We're safe. The gullies will lead the floods away from us."
His ears tucked in further.
Din picked him up, turned off the lights in the living room, and wandered into the bedroom. The single bedside lamp cast the room in an inviting glow. "Sometimes our bad memories can be trigged by something we see or hear. It was raining like this when I was taken. Are you thinking about that right now?"
Grogu had dug his head into an armpit, hiding. Din could feel him nod. A tiny gesture. A secret shared between them. An admission of feelings he didn't want to relive.
"You want to sleep with me tonight?"
Another little affirmation. Din could feel him relax in his arms.
