(Ok I might be making a mistake with this title but whatever. I live in the UK and I barely even know what the meme was, and haven’t been to a Nando’s for like a decade, but it used to be delish :) So anyways. This will be a spicier collection of fics. This prologue is bland, though, no spices. (I gonna have to put up a Minors DNI for the rest though... if I’ll have the courage to post them.))
Another thing.
This pairing is Din Djarin x gn reader / tall reader. I’m short. There’s so many short reader stuff out there, I wanted to write for people on the other end of the “why is your height not normal” spectrum. If I make mistakes later on please tell me!
Or if you have an idea, prompt, advice etc for this planned collection, based on this and my other three little one-shots, send me a message. I’m awkward but I’ll do my best to answer.
Word count: 526
Summary: You’re an armourer and some shiny guy shows up. This is just a prologue / fluff piece in itself.
Rating: suitable for babies. Ok, ok, G.
CW: mentions of mandalorian history. Playing somewhat loose with canon lore.
.
***
You hear about him first over lunch. People talk about the new visitor. A bounty hunter, with plain armour, who keeps to the Old Tradition of never taking their helmet off in front of others. The facts end there; the rest is gossip. He is from the Leader’s inner circle. He is their bodyguard. He is the Leader himself. There’s some talk about the Darksaber although the details are even more sketchy on that.
Then you see him. His armour is almost a full set, and most of it is beautifully made. The colour is missing, though - not a speck of paint, not even a sigil in sight. Interesting.
The man himself is tallish, and with the unpainted armour and dark clothes, has a grim simplicity to him that is rarely seen. Most people have colours, sigils, patterns. Your people live in your armour and your armours look lived in. The stranger is something of a blank slate. You follow him with your eyes as he walks past the rows of tables with some of the elders. Than they vanish off to a corridor, and you wonder who he is.
He stands motionless and is quiet until asked to speak at the evening assembly called to hear him out.
He speaks about Home, about gathering, about chasing off the remnant of the empire that still sits on the ore-mines of Home. He doesn’t ask anyone to join him, just to think. To try to imagine, to hope that something could be done. He only asks one more thing: he wants to reach other groups, to tell them the same message.
The covert is reluctant, which isn’t surprising. He expected it too. The elders promise to talk about his information. As for reaching other groups, they can’t help much. The People are scattered.
That’s when you stand up. You look at the elder of your clan, and her nod is an understanding and a permission. You are an armourer, and as the most junior master at your covert’s Forge, you travel around, offering services to any of the People who might need it. The groups you meet inform you of others they might know of and those in turn send you further to others.
You tell the stranger about these, and his excitement is visible. He turns towards you as he listens. He shifts his weight on his legs, he gestures as he asks you questions - he comes alive. You are exactly the person he needs. You warn him that often you only meet a handful of the People; a settlement as large like this is very rare. Most are nomads, mercenaries, in hiding - suspicious. Diminished. They keep to those closest to them.
He doesn’t mind. He’s willing to go with you, on your terms, under your rules. Now that you stand too and have a better look at him, you notice the sigil on his pauldron; welded on and made from beskar, an unusual practice. It’s a mudhorn: strong and stubborn, fierce and protective. It’s a good sign.
You still think he is a bit too naive to offer his services like that.
Summary: They’re coming home! They’re coming home... a visit to home and facing some important questions.
Rating: M
CW: multiple references to sexual activities, relationship talk, references to polyamory (OC's parents) and open relationships, some angst, pining
Author’s note: Lots of pick-and-choose world building here. I mostly disregard / am not familiar with Legends except for the language, I love languages ( *insert Penny loves steak* gif here) and there’s barely any canon/also am not very familiar with whatever there is so I made up what I would like mandos to be; which is a very open and egalitarian society with a focus on family that comes in many forms (and is sometimes a single person with five tookas, other times it’s your three buir’e, your five vod’e and about thirty cousins.). Din is so alone and his covert has (had? :( ) to fight so hard to survive, I gave my Armourer a big, loving family and a community that fared much better.
.
Series: Prolouge - One - Two - Three - Four (NSFW Din/Cobb special)
Cheeky Mandos - Five: Coming home
**
When you get back to your covert, you leave Djarin behind as soon as politely possible. You need your friends, you need advice, and you need company that isn’t confusing you.
You find your friends at Thlolla’s place; they have small ones so the rest gather at their quarters, scattering in the kar’yai’s couches and on pillows on the floor. You commed them before you got back. They would’ve gathered anyways for the occasion that you came home, but your message made sure that everyone showed up for at least a little chat.
They know what it is all about, of course. They know you well enough. They saw the shiny armour. It’s easier than putting two and two together.
“It’s basically like putting one and one together” Tav winks at you, and Hill’it smacks their back.
“You are so bad at math, that’s the only thing you could ever calculate” and you all laugh at that because Tav is terrible with numbers.
All the couches and floor pillows are occupied as your friends and some of their families lounge around the karyai of Thlolla’s home. You stretch out on the soft rug, resting your limbs on as many people as you can. You missed them dearly. Jama, who has your left leg draped over his knee, rubs your calf before speaking.
“So. What is your problem, mate?”
He knows you the longest. You lived at the same covert from the time you were entrusted with your own rifles, moved three times, and only separated years later after you both went through your verd'goten. His clan is the reason you still have the same accent as him when you’re tired or angry: that was the first time you were around more people than your immediate family.
You let your thoughts linger on the past because it’s safer than the present. Or the future.
“No problem. Just the usual ‘I’m an idiot, innit’ situation.” You pause, and try to swallow your regrets. “When was I good with choices?”
There’s a collective sigh and rolling of eyes, but you can’t help to feel that way and voice it. All your friends have found their places a long time ago. Some on their own like Haika; others have families, some with children like Thlolla does, or with partners of some kind. Except you. To-Ran, Tav’s foundling, crawls over to you and leans against your chest. They have been formally adopted by their current clan only recently and probably feels you are in something of a similar situation. You squeeze their shoulders reassuringly.
“Let’s be honest, hun” Jama says, “Neither of us has the burden you do. We don’t have to vanish off to space for weeks at a time, or if we have to, we can work together.”
That is the crux of the matter. Unless you get with another Armourer, your professions would pull you apart.
“I’m just thinking… maybe it’s because I was alone for quite a while now. I just latched onto the first person that came along and stayed for a bit.”
Hill’it pulls up an eyebrow before answering.
“Maybe you need a friend so you won’t feel so alone.”
There are small ones in the room hence the careful wording, but the adults understand the added meaning. They offer friendship, yes, but the definition of that word can vary. You aren’t sure how outsiders do it exactly - you have met people who have definitely had a more stricter separation between friend, person to have feelings for, and person to have sex with, than your people do. But they didn’t seemed to navigate things any better, so you stick with what you know and what worked.
But your people, at least those you know closer, tends to deal with problems head-on. You can’t fight well if your thoughts linger on problems in your private lives. You were thought early on to face your doubts and fears and anything that could be a distraction - and how that includes feelings and libido too. How people have needs for emotions, attachments and intimacy, that those varies, each their own way and degree. And that these are some of the things that can spur people to make rush decisions the most. You and your friends watched others make those mistakes and made some yourselves too.
Life thought you that if you have people around to talk to and to hug and to trust, you wont jump on a stranger you’ve barely met and feel attracted in some way just to fulfil those needs. You can wait until you get to know them, until you actually want them for themselves, and not just for the feelings or the intimacy, emotional or physical.
*
Hil’it is a good partner, familiar and fun, and tonight, extra caring. You wake up together sometime way before dawn, and the worry must still be on your face.
“Rivets for your thoughts?”
You sigh, and try to gather said thoughts. You remind yourself at another hard learned lesson: talking about a problem is often half the way of solving them.
“I’m just wondering… “ you start, than your words stuck in your throat.
“..what if it works out?” Hil’it smirks at you, lips pulled into a lopsided grin as they rest their head on their arm. You furrow your brows in disapproval.
“No, don’t try to derail the conversation. What if I say something, or do… and he takes it as an offence?” You stop their objections before they could open their mouth fully. “I’m serious. He was sent on this… mission. From high up. Pissing him off can have political consequences.”
“You mean that he could take your advances the wrong way and exact vengeance on your clan, or even the entire covert?” They look at you with an eyebrow raised. Put it like that, you know that’s not very plausible. “We are talking about a vod who was basically ready to enter your service and accept any of your terms, after seeing you for the first time three minutes prior when you said ‘hey I’m a wandering armourer, I visit some coverts sometimes’ - all so he can reach more of our people.”
“Yeah… he won’t turn on us just because I make him feel a bit uncomfortable.”
“Not very likely.”
You nod, glad you managed to voice your worries.
They lean their forehead to yours, and you share a breath, the tradition as old as the Creed. Hil’it than tugs on your arm, pulling you closer onto their chest. You scoot over and snuggle up beside them with your back to them, their arms around you and resting their hands on your chest. You sleep much better until dawn.
*
Three of your buirs live at a smaller enclave some distance from the main hub of the covert. You go over to them for breakfast after Hil’it leaves for her job early. It’s only Tis-buir who’s up, as usual, pattering about in the kitchen making long breakfast just as you expected.
He pulls you close and touches your helmets together. He didn’t need to wear his helmet in his own home, or even his armour, and definitely not at this early hour, but he got into the habit since you became a Master. His set was forged before you were born and you’re grateful that he’s still around, together with your other buirs. Every time you get home, they seem to look older and older though. You wonder whether part of your panic about relationships comes from the dread that they might not be able to give their blessings to you.
“How are you doing, ad’ika?” he asks, and the way he says it is always with so much more meaning than people usually throw that question around. When Tis-buir asks it, he means it. He wants to know if you have any fears, if something bothers you, if there’s something that made you happy but don’t talk about it because you think it’s too insignificant to talk about. You hesitate, and that’s an answer in itself that he understands. “That bad, eh?”
He chuckles and steps away, back to the steamer. He checks the rice cooking there before turning back to you.
“What is it, cyare? Pirates? More beskar thieves? Or that stowaway getting in your way while you work?”
Your helmet is on so he can’t see your face, luckily, and you’re quick to deny anything.
“No, it’s not that. It’s something more… personal.” You could just end the conversation, like you often do when you don’t want to trouble your buir’e, but you came for advice. You nudge yourself mentally. Better to spit it out - it’s nothing to be ashamed about catching feelings after all. Your buir’e told their stories enough times to know they have no problem hearing about the topic.
“Oh. So, it’s about a special person. And they are.. an aruetii?” He asks, and he keeps his helmet on still, to allow you to do the same. As much as you’d like to see his face, it’s better this way.
“No, it’s… he follows the Creed too.” You admit, and your stomach is doing a flip. It’s entirely different talking to your family about this. With your friends, they’d just say their opinion and you can take it or leave it. With your aliit, you want their approval.
Tis-buir nods slowly, weighing your words. Then he reaches for his helmet and takes it off, placing it on the shelf near the counters that is there for this purpose. He leaves his scarf on, the handwoven fabric soft around his white hair and beard. You may take off your own helmet now, and you do that, placing it on the shelf beside his. You turn your snood down from your head and fold it back around your neck. He’s smiling at you.
“Shall I put two and two together, or…?”
“Why does everyone want to do math around me all of a sudden” you mutter under your breath, turning your face away in embarrassment.
“Because your friends and us know you well enough, Buy’ce’ka” he winks at you while stirring one of the pans; he knows you met your friends last evening. Using your childhood nickname brings a smile onto your face. You took into your head to became an armourer the moment you touched your first helmet. You wore it all the time even though you didn’t needed to and told everyone who would listen that one day you’ll be making buy’ce’se, helmets, yourself. Even some of the tutors called you that instead of your real name.
You go to help with breakfast. It’s not the usual simple fare but the multi course, heart-warming, belly-filling affair for a special day. You remember with a sudden pang how Djarin is probably having ration bars on his own in a sparse guest room, or maybe some porridge if he remembers to go to the communal dining hall. You somehow hope he has company, even if he is fine with solitude. You are too, but you have all these people to recharge with. How alone is he?
You almost burn the mushrooms while getting distracted. You focus back on the food, and as the house slowly stirs awake, the members of your family show up one by one and greet you over stirring pots and chopping vegetables. When all is ready, Tis-buir calls to table and you move everything into the karyai. The heart of every home where most of life happens - eating, living, receiving guests, defense during a battle - is a spacious room, and you only half fill it.
It’s only your three buir’e who live here now, and one of your vod’e lives next door. She comes over with her riduur and their usually grumpy teen who fails to hide how happy they are to see you. You don’t even make an attempt to hide anything and after touching foreheads, you pick them up and give them a hearty squeeze.
“Ba’vodu! I’m not a child anymore to just pick me up like that” they grumble after you put them back down, and you pat the top of their head.
“You’re going to need to grow a little more, vodu’ad.” You smile at them, but they suddenly go nervous.
“Are you going to come home to my verd'goten?” they say, face solemn and showing them older than they are. You see this often: the fears of a foundling, someone who lost their roots once already. The little things that a person born into a mandalorian family would never worry about rear their head in them, and you hug them close.
“Well that’s an unnecessary question. Why wouldn’t I?!”
They make you promise to come back, and you let them make a reminder of the date and time in the form of a holo message on the comm of your vambrace. You have made their first helmet years ago and they barely can hold themselves back for a few minutes before asking about the possibility of vambraces. Their new pair, forged to include pieces passed down at both side of their family’s, are hidden in the house, finished months ago, waiting for them to prove worthy to receive them.
You wouldn’t miss the occasion for the world. You’ve been there for all your vodu’ad’s, the children of your siblings; and even some of your younger cousins and unrelated ade in your clan. As you eat with your aliit, your thoughts go back to Djarin again. He must be missing that foundling he was responsible for. Who does he have for family? He mentioned some friends who helped him through bad times lately. You hope he’s on the comm with them right now, using the covert’s better equipment to reach them after having to do with what the Brick has for weeks.
*
You spend the day chatting, visiting the elder of your clan and more family, and one of the old warriors of the clan too, to receive her last blessings. She might still be alive the next time you visit home; she might not. You are thankful for being able to say goodbye to her. You visit the Forge last, and help out with whatever work needs doing with the other masters, until it’s time to leave for the dock.
You almost start to make excuses to prolong your stay before steeling yourself. Twenty-four hours, a standard day, that was the schedule you agreed on with Djarin. Unless he comms you that something came up on his end, you’ll leave in the evening.
*
The first thing you spot in the hangar is the shiny armour. That suit looks good at every angle, at any distance. Than you feel your ears flush when a little voice says in your head how that might be partially because the person under it makes it look good. You try to shove the thought to the back of your mind.
As you draw near, you can see he’s talking with your elder Thrilla. Your heart does a double-beat as all your thoughts from before come flushing back for a moment. No. They must be talking about his mission, not you. And he’s basically clan-less, or at least elder-less. It’s good to see him seeking the guidance of an elder too.
He’s standing in that hip-twisty way you’ve seen him do, with one hand on his belt. It’s a strangely relaxed and playful stance from a person who’s usually as focused and sombre as him. Thrilla glances up at you, the black of her visor glinting in the blue and green helmet. Than she shoos you away with a barely visible battle sign, turning back to Djarin. You’re a bit surprised, but make yourself scarce. Than you spot a grey head near the cargo ramp of the Brick. It’s Kad, Thrilla’s riduur and a mechanic who had helped to rebuild your ship. You go over to greet them before getting on with the preparations to leave.
This time you two will be away for longer and will travel further away. The trail to known coverts had dried up, and from now on you will be going by uncertain informations and rumours. You have experience in that, but the fact that he used to be a bounty hunter should help. You often spend days just trying to pinpoint which spaceport, which town, which mountain or cave or farmstead is the one you are looking for. You hope his expertise will help.
Your hopes are proven right. He reduces the hunting time to hours, and you scramble to finish preparing your tools and equipment.
“Nice job, hunter” you smile at him. His helmet turns towards you and he nods.
“You’re welcome, armourer” and you hear the smile in his voice too. Than you mentally chase away the butterflies that suddenly seem to have taken over your stomach.
(Sorry I had a terrible writer’s block in the past 6-ish weeks - I went from reading fanfiction and being inspired by other’s visions to “I’ll never be able to write anything like these and I’m useless” in a single day :( I’m getting back into the groove finally, so I’m hoping to post more soon.)
There will be 18+ content (in the coming chapters soon) so if you are a minor, please don't read further.
Also the characters will be quite open and relaxed about things like gender, attraction, sexual activities, relationships etc, so if you prefer your Din (and their partner) possessive and/or monogamous , this won’t be a good read for you!
***
This pairing is Din Djarin x gn reader / tall reader. I’m short (and cis and woman). There’s so many short (and female) reader stuff out there, I wanted to write for people on the other end of the “why is your height not normal” / "definitely female" spectrum. If I make mistakes or you have advice, or ideas you'd like to see, please tell me!
Word count: 4267
Summary: You’re an armourer and some shiny guy just showed up.
First full piece/chapter/course! In which people seem to catch things. Thoughts? Viruses? Dropped facts? Who knows!?? Also contains a dilettante’s attempt at space electronics and some barely-canon-reminiscent Mando world-building. Still no spiciness sorry, marinating is a long process :P
Rating: T for some mentions of heavier topics.
CW: Mentions of mandalorian history, playing somewhat loose with canon lore (as in, my SW knowledge is patchy. sorry.)
Author’s note: I tried to find more info but it seems like the mandalorian alphabet doesn’t have names for the individual letters so I used aurebesh (also I liked the little Dorn(e) meta in there). And sorry for the bad puns. They’ll keep coming.
Prologue
One - ...and we're off
***
You aren’t worried about taking a stranger on board, you’ve done that plenty of times before. You hope he’s willing to put in the effort himself, too, just as he promised at the assembly.
The stranger leaves behind his ship, saying a friend will come to pick it up together with whoever might want to join the cause. You spot him from the cockpit as he walks over with a repulsor pallet in tow. He stops for a moment when your droids surge past him, busy at their pre-flight tasks, before moving on towards the ramp.
All his baggage is a satchel at his hip and a small bag on his shoulder, and two large crates of weaponry. You put him up in the spare cabin, the one that had been Sal’ee’s, your former apprentice, before she went on to be a journeyman. He stands in the middle of the room, staring at the two cots on opposite sides of the room, the lockers, the fresher in the corner.
“All mine? Where will you sleep?”
You don’t understand the surprise in his voice.
“Over there” you show him, pointing at the cabin opposite from his. It’s much more lived in, some of the blankets and trinkets and pillows visible through it’s open door. “There’s a third cabin that I mostly use for storage but has more fold-up bunks in case I need to transport more people. That’s rare though.”
“Ohh.” He nods, then turns to look around his room again. “Okay. I thought all of these rooms were cargo space.”
You smile, and quickly think through your to-do list. You’ll have to rearrange your schedule somewhat but it’s not that big of a bother.
“Come on, I’ll show you around the ship.” Before he gets lost in its cavernous interiors, you might add - but you don’t. If his reaction to a separate cabin and his current ship - an old ARC170 - is any indication, he must be used to very cramped quarters.
***
Your trusty Brick, a beat-up YV 929, is armed to the teeth and ugly, just as you like it. The ship is a scavenged one, gutted from most of its original factory issue armaments, engines, and even wiring. It was perfect for your former master when she found it at a scrap heap: she wanted to rebuild it herself, deliberately piecemeal; panels sourced form here, engines from there, concealments added. She modified the inner workings of the engines so that the power lines could be redirected to a concealed forge.
That forge is your pride and the main reason you haven’t settled at a permanent place yourself. When your master retired from travelling, the ship passed to you, and you continued her mission of offering your knowledge and expertise to those of your people who otherwise had no access to an armourer.
…
The next standard month is spent with adjusting, both for yourself after getting used travelling alone again since Sal’ee left, and for the stranger who found himself a passenger on someone else’s ship. Apparently he used to live a very similar life to yours, with the exception that he was a hunter not a craftsman.
You travel together, share meals, research the places you are directed to. He joins in the effort that is maintaining the ship. Still - he is very taciturn at the beginning, keeping his words to the bare minimum. The first few days it feels as if you are still on your own aside of your droids. By the middle of the month, he progresses from short answers, through sharing information, to willingly starting to tell stories; but you know that chatting will never be his defining feature.
His armour seems to fill the spaces of the Brick’s corridors. You feel as if it’s not him who has the presence, but that set of glinting, perfectly made handwork of an armourer you already admire. Some of the pieces were sourced elsewhere, you can tell by the different shapes and designs; they seem haphazard and mismatched compared to the rest. Most of the set is the work of a single person. On those, there’s not a single uneven line, a broken curve, an edge at the wrong place. The angle of the panes of the metal, the ridges, the simplicity and elegance of them all - you have to hold yourself back from touching them, to admire them. You would give a lot to hold those pieces in your hand, to study them, to analyse them with your eyes and hands and with your tools.
You’re a master, yes. But so much knowledge was lost. So many masters gone, with their knowledge and their workshops. Apprentices became heads of Forges in the absence of the more skilled. The survivors still to this day have to piece together half-remembered lessons and forgotten details, experiment with techniques that were known before but the methods got lost as decades of civil war and occupation and murder kept eroding your heritage.
Sometimes a set of armour comes along that is just made in a way you never had an opportunity to learn. Often the person who forged them is long gone. Not the stranger’s armourer though. As far you can tell, she’s alive. Or at least was, when he last saw her. Not too long ago; though your usual method for guessing forging dates is mostly useless as it is based on the condition of the suit’s paintwork. Which he doesn’t have, so you can only guess from the small amount of scratches. You try to ask once, but whilst he’s forthcoming with general stories, he doesn’t go into details.
It’s a common theme with him. He talks about people and planets and events, and leaves out a lot - and you don’t even notice it first. Only when you try to glean information about his armour do you realize how well he fuzzes over those facts and nuances. It’s only up to the peculiarities of Basic and its use of gendered pronouns that you know his Armourer is a woman, or at least he considers them so. He doesn’t even tells you his own name, and when you ask your Elder in one of your communications, she tells you he didn’t gave it to them either. You keep introducing him as a friend, and that is the end of it for a while.
***
The visits to this first few coverts with him are… interesting. You can see him fidgeting from the corner of your eye. He always follows half a step behind and off to a side, as if not wanting to be in your way. He keeps quiet and doesn’t mix much, and around small children and droids, he is positively withdrawn. He only comes alive when he talks about his mission.
You had learned early on during your apprenticeship that keeping the helmet on is a safe bet when meeting with unfamiliar mandalorians. That led to later getting in contact with his type of believers too, despite their notorious secrecy even from the rest of the People. When you tell the stranger about that, he immediately showers you with questions, but you can’t give an answer to most of them. You never met with anyone from his particular covert, or heard of it. No name, no description seems familiar. It’s painful to watch his shoulders slump after daring to hope.
During the course of the month spent travelling, he gradually comes to be more social. He starts to stand and walk beside you. He doesn’t withdraw to the background anymore; he can actually be quite chatty if approached the right way. Droids still make him stop, though he warms up to kids in his own way. He’s good with them, at least in your opinion, though you know some would still call him aloof and distant. He isn’t a cuddler, nor does he crouch down to ask cutesy questions. He juts sits nearby them, and in that way of children having a good sense about adults, they know he’s trustworthy. They go up to him to chatter, to hand him a toy to hold, to ask him to fix a latch on their boots; than they go back to play.
He teaches you too, inadvertently at first during everyday conversations and later by his own volition, about his Way. About his Creed. It keeps throwing you off how much it differs from most that you had met before. Not even meeting briefly with people who followed the same Way as him could prepare you for the details that he does share. The degree of strictness, the loyalty, the barest bones Old Tradition beliefs and their willingness to follow them is very rare amongst the People as far as you can tell. Their devotion earns your respect.
At other times, your jaw hangs open and you can’t believe you are talking to an adult roughly around the same age as yourself, who by his own admission had spent three decades living as a follower of the Creed - not knowing about things children are thought through plays and songtime. His ignorance is so staggering, your admiration towards his unknown Armourer wavers. How could she keep so many things hidden from them? Why not talk about your own history? Your greats? Your artefacts?
About the many other who would call them vod’e, siblings?
You are an armourer, a craftsman, a person who makes a living by making things with your hand. You’re not a leader, or a scholar, or someone who decides what to tell your people. You do have a status within the community, but that is a status of service. From what the stranger says, their Armourer was a leader in every aspect: elder and lorekeeper and moral guide and more. All in one. It is something you can see developing from the old songs and histories amongst groups who take tradition more literally.
You are good at observing people, even at copying their habits to make them feel more comfortable with you, but less good at determining their underlying motives. The reason you think of him as “the stranger” even after travelling with him is because it’s so hard to figure out what drives him. There’s a melancholy to him that overrides the more typical mandalorian fight-readiness or aggression. You see how he gazes off to the distance sometimes, turning his head to the side and freezing. How he keeps to himself when he can. But you can’t tell why. Grief? Regrets? Determination to change? Planning something greater and being preoccupied with that?
He doesn’t pick fights to test you. He spars with you when you invite him to, he helps when you ask, and often even without it. He’s polite and considerate; he keeps conversation to practicalities and interesting stories, and doesn’t bother you with anecdotes or insistent questions about trivialities or your private life. He even does the dishes.
He’s deadly boring in his reliableness.
You are used to being on your toes around people all the time. When you meet a new group, it’s all unknown people. With ones you had already visited, the problem is having to remember them. They remember you of course, the ‘wandering armourer’; and surely you remember them too.
What is worse, when people stay the same but you don’t remember them, or when they change and you just can’t place them?
He becomes a good excuse after you’ve been to several coverts together. It’s interesting to notice how your dynamics change even further once you two get into a comfortable routine. You start to retreat to your forge and tools, and let him take all the attention. And he doesn’t just talk about his mission anymore, or lets little ones play around him whilst he’s quiet. He converses with people about news, about their children, about weaponry. You have more time to focus on your work.
Sometimes, people ask you what do you think of his mission. You tell them that you will follow what your clan decides, and that’s mostly true. It is something people don’t often debate, at least.
He quickly becomes a part of your everyday life. You are content with your usually solitary travels. You know that your family, your clan and your friends wait for you at home. They message you and you can find the time that suits you to message back. You don’t miss the constant hubbub of the covert most of the time. But now that you have someone that is not a droid, someone who is your equal in every aspect, on board again, it’s not even lonely anymore.
***
“So what’s up with you and droids?” you ask one day, after you got back from a covert and are safely in hyperspace to the next destination. You tinker with your astromech’s navigational systems. Poor 2-T keeps bumping into walls and crates. Again.
The stranger looks at you and your droid, than over at Mouse who for a change isn’t zooming around at foot level.
“Bad memories.”
“Gunk sat on you?” You tease. You hope it’s just something silly and not him having some sort of snobbish organics-are-better philosophy. He is quiet, and you focus on your work. He’ll talk if he wants to, that much you know already about him.
Inside the body of your astromech, a rivet from stars knows where is stuck between two circuit boards and blocks the access to a short-circuited piece of wire.
“Kriff. Toots, this will take a while, sweetie. Can’t access that kriffing panel.” He chirps back something and you read the translation on the small display. “No, it’s not that. My hand can’t fit in that small space. Let me find those pliers… should be in that other drawer somewhere.”
You search in the chest of tools, and despite your usually good organization, you can’t find them amongst the droids’ tools where their place is.
“Let me help.” The stranger’s voice beside you makes you jump. He can be awfully quiet. “Sorry. I think I might’ve put them back into the wrong drawer. I used them the other day when I fine-tuned that scope.”
He points at another drawer, where you keep your fine electronics stuff. No wonder he mixed them up. He stands beside Tootee a bit awkwardly until you find the tool.
“Here! No problem by the way. “ You turn back to him and to the droid, than have an idea. “Do you mind a bit more help? You can say no if you don’t want to work with the droid, I’ll understand.”
He doesn’t object yet, so you go back to 2-T and show the stranger the area you’re working on. You see him lean closer in your peripheral vision.
“That’s where I need to get that burned piece of wire out and install a new one, but first, I need to get that rivet out of the way.” You point at the root of the problem, than explain your plan, pointing out each part in turn. ”If you could hold those using this, than I could get here, remove this, with that tool, than have to get those bundles out of the way too, so than that wire there could come out. Easy.”
You look up at him, and his helmet is way closer than you expected. You can almost see your reflection in that black visor as it stares back at you for a second, and you almost apologize again, when the stranger starts to speak.
“Just have to hold the wires to the casing, or pull them like…” he moves his hand in the air, showing what he means.
“Hold them to that panel, there, with the pliers, so I have room to access the rest.”
He thinks for a moment, than he starts to tug one of his gloves off.
“You don’t need to take that off, just hold the pliers” you tell him, but he shakes his head.
“No, I can fit my hand in there, I’m pretty sure. If not we can try it with the tool.”
You realize that this is the first time you see his skin. Than it occurs to you that he might very well misunderstand this whole situation. You just asked him to hang his hand inches from yours in an enclosed space; inside a droid nonetheless, just after you basically told him you noticed he has a problem with them. It would be so easy to get caught up in there, to touch his hand, and hush it up as coincidence. Especially now that he took his glove off as well. He might even think that it was a careful plan of yours: have an area to work with were your slightly larger hands don’t fit but his might.
Your fingertips already tingle from knowing you can’t make mistakes. Which means you’ll probably do. He reaches between the panels and gets to the part where you got stuck. He wiggles his fingers a bit and scrapes around.
“Ha, found some wires. Are these the ones you need out of the way?”
You peer down into the quagmire of electronics, trying to find the best angle to see everything.
“Yes, those are the ones. Just hold them like that.” You try to focus on what you are doing, but after those earlier thoughts, your hands are jittery. You somehow manage to remove the obstructing rivet, than find the burned out part and replace it without accident, the stranger patiently holding things out of your way. You direct him here and there, occasionally stumbling as it’s a lot of instructions, or at least a lot of “could you please” and “thank you”. It gets particularly awkward when you stumble over the lack of name spectacularly.
“Could you pull those the other way, so they aren't that taut, please? Thank you, you. I mean thank you.”
“Din. Din Djarin.” Your head snaps up while the rest of your body freezes. “I should have told you my name sooner, but I’m so used to not telling it… and it just became more awkward to bring it up as time passed. I apologize.”
You close your mouth that of course was hanging open in surprise, than shake your head.
“I thought at first that I missed it when you said it so I was ashamed that I didn’t remember.” That did happen before, and it was one of your greatest worries about meeting new people. “I actually asked my elder. Sent her a comm. So when she told me you went nameless, I didn’t wanted to demand it.”
He doesn't answer right away. His voice is softer when he speaks a bit later.
“Thank you. For being considerate.”
You smile and try to wave it off. Which results in your hand slipping and pawing at his, still motionless and stuck in the inside of the astromech.
“Oh shucks, I’m sorry… didn’t meant to.” You withdraw your hand quickly, and start to look for your tools to cover your mistake.
He doesn’t seem bothered, luckily. You calm down, reminding yourself not to behave like you drank one too many glasses of your cousin Ree’s home-made tihaar, and finish the repair.
“You can let those go now, I’ll finish from here. Thanks for your help.”
“You’re welcome, any time.”
He sits back on a nearby crate and watches you work for a while, ignoring Mouse zooming around the room. You’re surprised a bit: you didn't expected him to stick around. And than he starts to ask about 2-T. How long you had him, is he temperamental, can you install a vocoder on astromechs, and why not. His tone is somewhat cautious, his voice stiff, like someone asking about a dangerous predator. You remember how you asked him about his distance with droids, but don’t want to push that question. He already told you his name today.
…
By the time you finish with the rest of the repairs, clean Tootee up and tidy around your workplace, interrupted by having to leave hyperspace and land at a spaceport, it’s the middle of the night in local time. You planned to have a nap and search out the local covert just before dawn.
You go to the galley to have a bite before turning in, and the stranger - Din, you remember, although his last name is less clear - is cleaning up some dishes. There’s another bowl in the middle of the small table, covered by a plate.
“That’s for you, if you’d like to have it. Used up the last of that spice mix we got” he tells you as you enter. You sit down and stretch your legs out one side. As you take the plate off from the steaming bowl, you think about how nice it is to find warm food on the table and not having to cook your own all the time.
“Thank you.” You pull the bowl close and take the spoon that he put beside it. You swirl the soup - it looks very good: clear broth with lots of veggies and other fillers in it - and gather your thoughts. “So ummm… I want to ask something before it gets awkward again.“
He finishes piling the bowls and cups and sits down on the seat opposite. You blurt the question out before you might change your mind.
“What was your name again? Din, that was clear, but the rest… sorry but it sounded something like “jarring”?”
He chuckles, and it’s a clear sound even with a vocoder, no snort or sigh to distort it.
“It’s Djarin. Dorn-jenth-aurek-resh-isk-nern. Djarin.” You nod, a bit embarrassed, and he continues. “Don’t worry, you aren't the first to ask. Probably not the last either.”
“Thanks for being patient. I’m not the best with names, to be honest.”
He tilts his head.
“Is that why you are always so focused when someone introduces themselves? I can ask them to repeat their names for me too if you want to, than both of us can try to remember them.”
You blink at him.
“That’d be…” Unnecessary, and don’t bother, and it’s not your job, you think - but stop yourself. That would actually help. No shame in accepting it. ”That would be nice. Thanks.” You are good at a few things, like making things with your own two hands. Not gaping when something surprises you, or remembering faces or names, any names, not just people? Nah.
You tuck into your soup, and the two of you sit in companionable silence. You wander if Djarin sits there because he wants to, or if he’s waiting for more questions from you. You asked a lot from him during the last few hours, and he was really kind with all his help and telling you his name and not being bothered when you misremembered it.
You are halfway done with your meal when he stirs. He leans forward with his lower arms on the table, and takes a deep breath. You wonder what his question will be - you commit to answer whatever it might be. He deserves that after today.
“So you asked earlier about me and… droids, right?”
Your hand with the spoon stops in the air. You weren’t expecting this question, at all.
“Yes…” You want to say he didn’t have to answer. But you already told him that. You’re sure he remembers that too - since he brought the topic up again. “Yes, I did.”
He shuffles on his seat a bit, and looks out to the side like he sometimes does. You lower your spoon and eat, letting him gather his thoughts.
“When I was a kid… I don’t know how old you were then, but during the war. The Clone wars.” You nod, understanding what he’s getting at, and he continues. “We were… the place I lived came under attack. Some separatist battle droids. Mandalorians saved me.”
You swallow your soup. That was the shortest possible description of someone having their entire life and probably everyone they knew ripped away from them and finding a new way of life for the decades to come.
“I’m sorry” you say, because really, what else is there to say. He nods, and gazes off again. Than he shrugs his shoulders, as if he wants to shake the weight of the past from them.
He gets up, and walks around the table on his way out. He stops beside you for a moment and hesitates, and you almost turn towards him to ask what he needs when you feel him squeeze your shoulder. Than he straightens and steps away.
It’s warm where he squeezed it, and you remember how long ago it was that someone touched you.
You need to talk to your friends asap, and hug at least some of them. He turns back from the door.
“Get some sleep before dawn, all right? Have to be sharp to remember all those new names.” You don’t see him wink but you’d bet he does behind his visor. You scrunch your nose at him and pout before smiling, and he dips out of the galley.
Your hand is still hovering in the air, holding the spoon, while you listen to his footsteps getting more distant as he walks down the corridor to his cabin.
It’s just your luck that you don’t need your wits the next place. It’s only two people with the same, simple name and you met both of them before.
