Just a Little Thing
You aren’t used to sleeping in, much less sleeping in a real bed that gets a fair share of sunlight, so when your eyes begin to open, you think you might be dreaming. Half of the rusting barn is covered in shadow from the watery light bearing through the curtain covering the window, so you can’t make out much, but the soft breathing of your little one in the cradle just a few feet away tells you it’s still early.
Beneath a thick blanket that smells and feels unfamiliar, the Mandalorian’s arm is curled around your waist, his gloved hand laying flat against the bed beneath your breast, and you can hear his gentle snoring, quieted through the helmet, just behind your own head on the pillow. His knees are tucked behind your own, and his other arm is shoved beneath the plush, overstuffed pillow you share. Outside, beyond the barn, you can hear the life of the forest-animals scuttling and digging in the dirt, birds in the trees, and distant voices of the villagers waking up.
You are warm and safe, and you have not felt so whole since before you left Nevarro and the two children you dream of.
There is a distinct soreness in your arms and legs that you don’t recognize, and it takes your drowsy conscience a long while to drudge up the memory of Cara throwing you around like a rag doll to remember why. Shifting beneath the blanket, you turn towards the man sleeping in his armour and slip your own arm around his slender waist, pressing your cheek against the cowl that hides his neck and inhaling deeply. His beskar is still chilly against your skin where you can feel it, but you curl against him regardless. He smells like grass and soap, plants and salt, and your hand rubs at his back in soothing motions, waiting to drift off to sleep again.
Your fingers are cold, too, compared to the heat of him, and they catch at the belt around his hips. You slip your fingers beneath the band of his trousers and along the slope of his lower back, humming when you can feel the heat returning to your fingers.
From above you comes a very quiet, raspy baritone. “Good morning.”
You turn your face towards his neck, pressing your lips against the cowl in a muffled kiss by way of greeting. His own hand that had been draped beside you drags down beneath the covers, happily and lazily resting first on your thigh, then up to your hip, your waist, the side of your breast. Heat pools in your belly, slow and languid, an insistent ache you weren’t aware of before. His leather clad thumb brushes over the curve of your breast through your thick woolen dress. You’re used to keeping the chill of the Razor Crest at bay while you sleep, but now your clothes suddenly feel too heavy, too thick, and unbearable.
You’re surprised when Din’s hand releases your breast to grab you behind your knee, hauling your leg up over his hip and rolling you beneath him in a sudden burst of energy. You suck in a gasp, the grey light filled with dust motes looking like ash and stars between you. The blanket and his own bulk block out most of it, but you don’t mind the darkness. In fact, you let your eyes fall closed at the familiar presence of him pressing your legs apart, even covered in metal and cloth, and you sigh when he brushes the top of his cool helmet against your heated forehead.
“You don’t have to be awake yet,” you whisper without an ounce of dedication. He says nothing, rolling his helmet against your brow from side to side for a moment before bracing his weight upon his elbows. When your knees tighten around his waist, curling your legs more comfortably, his weight settles against your belly and heat, and you both release a contented, comfortable sigh. You can feel him growing firm beneath his belt, and you bite your lip in deference to your own blooming want. You have no idea how anyone manages this, having full lives to live around such strong feelings. Somehow you’ve done it together, by grace or skill, dancing back and forth between the Empire’s fingers, and as intense as the pain has been, these highs are just as dizzying, just as cataclysmic.
Neither of you make a move to uncover or remove clothing, and in fact the added friction feels terribly indulgent, something you are unused to. Din’s helmet gently fits into the crook of your neck against the pillow, every gentle shift of your bodies adding to the unspoken tease of what you both want. You don’t think, should you give in to that, you’d be able to keep quiet. Not when he’s so drowsy and handsy and sweet like this; you think you’d do anything for him when he’s this genuine and unguarded, and it’s more than you can keep to yourself.
“I want to kiss you,” you tell him, the subdued need in your voice honest and tight, creating a blanket of clouds upon the beskar of his helmet.
Din groans quietly, the vocoder muffled by the pillow, and his rocks against you, pressing you fully down into the well-worn mattress. His belt is heavy against your abdomen, and it feels strangely gratifying, relieving pressure that’s building slow and steady inside. Your hand slips up over his shoulder, fingers curling around the back of his neck where his cowl keeps him warmest, and you bite your lip as you drop your other hand between both your bodies, searching along the cool steel chest plate and further down. His entire body shudders above you, rocking unsteadily on his elbows as he wrestles his helmet up and off with one hand. It surprises you, having thought he would not remove it on an alien planet so far from the Crest. The quiet hiss of the release tastes like stale oxygen, and you make an involuntary noise when he drops it on the bed beside you both before smothering your lips with his mouth.
His skin is just as warm as you remember, and the back of your neck prickles with excitement to feel the smooth skin of his chin and jaw as he works your lips apart with languishing, fervent kisses. Your fingers slip beneath his belt, the fitted band of his trousers trapping your palm flat against the downy hair trailing downward for your exploring fingers.
Din rips his mouth from yours, drinking in air and shutting his eyes so tightly you think you’ve hurt him. His breathing grows labored and forced, the steel of his chest plate pressing against your breasts with every roll and dip, and he touches his brow against your own, now. His voice cracks, throaty from sleep as he bears down on you and begs, “P-Please.”
A rippling thrill shivers from between your breasts down into your belly at the sounds he makes, and your fingers at his neck curl, drawing up higher until you can bury them in the dark curls. You still aren’t used to this, being so close and whole, and all the nights he’s spent just pressing against you haven’t been enough for your wonder to wane. You can’t see his features in the dim, even this close, but with a gentle shift of your chin, you’re able to kiss his nose. “Alright,” you whisper, breathing in the scent of his skin once more. Your own eyes flutter heavily when he groans again. “T-Tell me if I...need to stop.”
The noise he makes is between a groan and a wheeze, and you feel like it’s a kind of encouragement, so you press your hand further down, biting your lip. You feel smooth, hot skin against your palm, and you flush with heat at how firm and heavy he feels in your grip. It seems clumsy to you, and you listen carefully to every sound he makes, every hiss or groan causing your hand to twitch or tighten. When you draw your feet up closer against the back of his legs, allowing more room, he lets out a gust of air, dropping his head to the side of your neck and whispering an urgent string of filth that you’re almost too shocked when you hear it to go on.
You turn your face toward his, and you think he might still have his eyes shut when you begin to kiss his nose again, then his cheek, light fluttering things that cool the building heat beneath his collar.
“I-I n-need to do s-something for you,” Din pants, his mouth seeming too clumsy to make the words from all the tension he holds in his shoulders, his arms, his back, and your smile is effortless as you kiss the side of his mouth.
“I got what I want,” you whisper against his cheek, still smiling as you dip your hand up and down his length again. His entire back rolls, and you can feel where his fingers are balled into fists beneath the pillow. His breathing is harsh, disturbing some of your hair, and your other hand moves from his neck to cup the side of his face. You guide his mouth back to your own in another deep, indulgent kiss, and only between sips of his mouth do you murmur, “Now it’s your turn.”
Din pulls back from you then, just enough that the tip of his nose brushes yours. You can feel how his hooks down a little where yours is a bit rounder, but it’s how dark his eyes are that draw your face up. You can just make out the lines on the outside of his eyes, crinkling and vibrant in his happiness, and your heart thumps hard against your breast with the way his cheeks pull when he smiles like this. He presses his forehead to yours again and whispers, “Your pleasure is mine, riduur’ika.”
A new name, you think with scintillating warmth, drawing your hand back up across the soft planes of his abdomen. Using your knees pressing on either side of his slender waist, you tenderly press him up and over by his pauldrons, both your hands warming the beskar as you palm them. Din allows you to roll him over onto his back, leaving you crouching over him, and he wastes little time pushing up the hem of your dress, the buttery leather covering his hands soft against your thighs. Your face is full of heat at the unfamiliar position, and you rest both of your hands on his stomach, tilting your head down at him like a bird from its perch.
He watches you contentedly before he smiles again, and in the dim morning light, you’re struck by how handsome he is, all dark curls and golden skin. You don’t know if you’ll ever grow used to it, to this, seeing him bare of beskar and burden.
“Like this?” he asks quietly, cupping your bottom and bringing you closer against his trousers. The hard length you’d been handling with tender clumsiness now takes the breath from you, and your own eyes flutter shut, nodding drowsily.
“Y-Yes,” you whisper, leaning forward to balance your weight on one hand and slipping your own hand between your legs. “Please.”
There’s a quiet urgency between both his and your own hands working to loosen his belt, and you think to glance toward the cradle to make sure the child is still sleeping across the barn before helping him push his trousers down. Your heart trills in your breast, a nervous, excited tempo that leaves you short of breath by the time he pushes inside you. Dropping your head down to bite at the fabric against his neck, his own groan is muffled against your hair.
His hands are unflinchingly tight at your lower back, and it matches the tension and tightness you feel, thighs trembling as you sink lower in a slow, staggering ease, puffing air that leaves fog against the beskar on his chest. For a moment, an agonizingly long pull, you think it’s too much, the words to stop bubbling in your throat because why does it feel like this? Why does it feel like so much more? You feel good, you feel full, and when Din’s fingertips press into the base of your back, nudging you forward, you suck in a breath at the dizziness of taking all of him.
“Tell me if I-if I do something wrong,” you whisper, biting your lower lip just before you experiment and rock your weight forward. Immediately Din pushes his head back into the pillow, his eyes screwing shut in bliss, and you think he might leave bruises from how fiercely he grabs at your waist. So you do it again, and again, breathing low and forcing yourself to focus on the feeling of being joined, of being guided back and forth in slow, close movements.
“N-Never, you c-can’t-” Din chokes, one of his hands dragging you down by the back of your head to press his forehead to yours, bodies beginning to gain a rhythm that matches the pounding of your pulse in your temples. Your hair falls to one side, shielding your faces from the light. “Gar serim bal jate ast.”
One of his hands captures the side of your face, tender and sweet, and you lose yourself in the wonderful motions, skin perspiring beneath your rucked up dress and along the sides of your face, only wanting more. You turn your face toward his hand, tears pricking your eyes and muffling a whimper into his palm. Din grabs hold of your chin and jaw, holding your head against his shoulder, and his other grasps your bare thigh, anchoring you against him. Everything changes when he suddenly thrusts up, and it’s all you can do to swallow your shout. He anticipates this, you think, because he’s quick to smother your sounds behind the leather of his glove. It leaves you feeling blissful, weightless, and handled. You want to do more, to be of some use in this shared chase, but it’s all you can do to hold onto his pauldrons when he’s drawing out and in so savagely that you end up crying behind his fingers.
Your eyes drift open just enough to see when he brings his other hand to his mouth, using his teeth to yank off his glove and slipping his hand between you. You’re unsure what exactly he’s doing until you feel his touch where you need it so much more, and the shock of pleasure it brings nearly hurts. It’s so much, too much, too much to stop, and it becomes hard to breathe against the thick fabric gathered at his neck when you’re panting so.
When all of your muscles seize and you see a mirage of color behind your closed eyes, you press your face down against his shoulder to keep from screaming. You aren’t aware when you grind against him until he suddenly hauls you over on your side, keeping your leg thrown over his waist. Everything is dark with your back pressed against the wall, and you feel like a doll, pliable as he takes his own pleasure brutal and shaking thrusts, whispering his beautiful language against your neck until everything falls away. You are left with peace, worn and exhilarated, damp with sweat and arousal. Your hair sticks to the sides of your face, and your dress is wrinkled from how it’s haphazardly tossed up around your hips.
Din does not move, not even to separate yourselves, and you don’t have a mind to bother with it, either. In fact, all you really want is to trace his face while it’s bare, so you do. Bringing your fingertips up to dance along the side of his cheek, his temple, tucking some sweat soaked curls behind his ear. He opens his eyes after a while, meeting your own gaze.
It’s certainly the last time that day you can meet anyone’s eyes, because all you can think of is if anyone heard you.
Cara notices your starry eyed, flaky concentration waning early in your practice, growing frustrated when you miss steps or turns in your sparring. She was encouraged by how deft you are with your staff, even suggesting at one point Din should sharpen the end for you, but all you can concentrate on is the sound of his hoarse voice bantering back with Cara. Or rather, how his voice became hoarse.
The worst is when Omera finds you later, down at the creek with a few other villagers washing clothes.
You’re sitting near the creek’s edge, mindful of the baby toddling around the area to pull and yank at weeds that he brings back to you proudly. You smile and nod at each one, praising him until there’s a small bouquet of dandelions, ragweed, and river reeds near your bag. Other villagers gather water upstream while you and more are downstream washing clothes and dishes. A few small children, barely able to toddle on pudgy baby legs waddle naked in and out of the creek farther down, and the mingling sounds of gossip and laughter ease your guilty conscience.
You’re in the middle of rinsing soap from your woolen dress when you sense someone approaching you from behind, and you sit back on your heels to turn around quickly, one soapy hand grappling for your beskar in the grass.
“Sorry,” Omera says, setting a woven basket down with dirty clay dishes in it. She moves lower than you along the stream, and her smile is nervous until your fingers release your walking aid. “I hope I didn’t scare you.”
“Just a little,” you admit, thinking of the last time someone did that, how they had meant you harm and hurt. You look back down at the thick, wet fabric in your hands, swallowing a growing knot in your throat. “It’s alright.”
Both of you take to silence, and you go back to busying yourself with the few articles of clothing you and Din had brought from the Razor Crest. A gentle but insistent tug on your dress makes you look over to find two big watery black eyes blinking up at you. The child sniffles pitifully, pointing insistently with his other three fingered hand toward Omera, and you frown until you can make out the clump of dark green as the source of his distress.
“Oh, dear,” you murmur, leaning over to lift the edge of Omera’s basket where it currently squishes most of the baby’s “flowers” he has brought you. Bringing them out, you can see they’re wilted and completely flat, and the child at your elbow begins to whimper and pat at them, fat tears dripping down onto the collar of his tiny robe. “It’s alright, my heart, we’ll find some new ones,” you whisper to him, lifting him up in your lap and kissing the tracks on his cheeks. “As many as you want. How about that?”
“What’s wrong?” Omera asks, doing a double take when she realizes the child is upset.
“Oh, it’s-it’s just a little thing, nothing to worry about.” You don’t want her to feel bad for trampling the weeds, but you don’t want to make your little one feel worse by saying it’s nothing, either. You nod down toward the mangled pile of brambles with a sheepish smile. “He likes to pick flowers. For his father, for-for me,” you add, blushing to remember the first time he’d done so, when Din had shown his anger out of worry for the first time. How much he cared, how he always has.
“These aren’t really fl-” Omera trails off, glancing at the sniffling infant who has buried his face in your chest and begins to hiccup. You can see it in the tilt of her head and the anxious tap of her fingers on the basket’s edge as she hesitates. “I see. I’m so sorry,” she adds, and you look down to see the child peeking from around one drooped ear. You rub the base of his hear soothingly. “There is a field not far from here, with many more. All different colors, even.”
“Oh? Then we’ll have to take a walk and look, won’t we?” You give him a little bounce in your arms, and he sniffles pitifully, breath trembling with his broken heart, and you coo and hold him closer. It is nearer to his nap time than not, so you know it will help him to rest for a while. You mouth a quiet thank you, and Omera’s shoulders visibly sink in relief when she sees no real harm is done.
“Have you been traveling with them long?” she asks, taking out several of the plates and bowls to clean them in the river. You shift the baby in your arm, using a free hand to lay the wet clothes on a rock nearby. “Only, it hasn’t been so long since they were last here, the Mandalorian and his little one.”
When I wasn’t with them, you realize, recalling Din saying the village owed him a favor. You turn back to the socks you intend to wash next. The grass is folded down where you were sitting, and you place the baby beside you, pinching his ear lovingly before getting back to your chore. “A few months, I think,” you say, knowing full well the exact time and day he walked into that dirty cantina for a talk with a criminal associate.
The similarities between then and now leave you winded as you think on it, and you blink very hard to keep yourself from getting lost in the quiet reminder that you could still be there.
“He hired me as a caretaker originally.” The idea makes you smile now, the far off days of learning to fly, of earning his trust, of wondering if he smiled or frowned beneath his helmet and gauging his moods by the draw of his shoulders or when he tapped his boot with impatience. The child leans over the bank of the creek, flapping his little hand in the shallow water. You scrub the socks with a bar of soap, working out dirt before laying them out to dry next before getting another of Din’s tunics.
“Oh. Do you do more now?” Omera asks, her long dark hair catching the light. It nearly has a blue tint to it, like the wing of a raven. You are struck with a sharp kind of grief when you think of braiding Corde’s hair, how such a little thing had been a solace.
So many ordinary things had been more than that, and they come back to you like clouds passing through. Tatooine and your injury, and how the Mandalorian had killed a fellow bounty hunter to save you and the baby. You consider now how he’d warned you away from the carbonite freezer and his bounties, recall the changes he’d made by turning on the lighting board of the control panels in the cockpit so you could see more, how he’d cleaned out the captain’s quarters so you wouldn’t bump into things going to bed at night. You remember him stroking your hair and removing his helmet while you slept, how he’d protected you in the bar in Canto Bight, and how he had gathered up your broken spirit in those fathier stables.
Only to give it back to you, shiny and new, in the heart of his peoples’ home.
You hear your name and realize your hands have been holding the shirt submerged in the creek while you stare into space. You look over to find Omera looking towards you, you think, her image blurry against the green spray of the forest around her.
“Are you alright?” She moves closer, crouching beside you and touching your shoulder with concern and kindness. “I can take you back, if you need it.”
“Oh, I’m...just thinking,” you force the words out, resisting the instinct to insist otherwise. The baby touches your knee, drawing your attention. His big, dark eyes are so sweet that you are only slightly mystified how he’s dragging a flopping, slippery fish by the tail in his other hand behind him.
“I wanted to ask if...if you and him are-” Omera pulls her hand back, keeping her voice low and scooting closer until you’re side by side. You’re of a similar height, but somehow she seems bigger, taller, more noble than you feel. She pushes a lock of hair behind her ears on both sides of her face. “I asked him to stay, before...and I was hoping to ask again.”
Several things fall into place, like pebbles skipping across a smooth pond, and in that moment, you know what Din would say to her, because you know him better than you know yourself. And that gentle, quiet truth, fossilized in your foundation, reassures you of what you have been feeling, something beyond love.
It shouldn’t have taken Omera, a kind woman but otherwise a stranger as far as you know her, to make you realize why that tender place in your heart has not stopped aching so much since Din nearly died. You press your palm to the center of your chest, that quiet pain seeming to open up and then release, like a flower having waited until the hour of the ghost to bloom.
“You might ask him,” you tell her gently, lowering your gaze to the child beside you and feeling nothing but certainty. “But I’m afraid his answer will be the same.”
You know it is not what she wanted to hear, but the interesting thing that you find is Omera only smiles, bowing her head in acceptance, and leaves you to gather your clothes in peace. You hurriedly turn to the child, separating him from the grossly large fish against his wishes, and gather your laundry.
Walking back to the village, you know your eyesight has not improved, has not grown clearer or healed the scars the sun left behind, but you feel as if you knew what to look for now. In fact, you do know, and you move quickly up the steps of the barn, throwing the curtain aside and setting to work to finish your tasks.
After the clothes are hung up and the baby is asleep, you head toward the cottage to find Winta, asking her to watch over your little one while he sleeps. You want to make sure you have the words in order, your feelings and thoughts all slotted together neatly.
The beskar is cold and heavy in your hand, reliable and grounding you as your strides become more confident, climbing through the fence into the field behind Omera’s cottage. You intended to pick some of the flowers for the baby to surprise him when he wakes, and the rhythmic thump of your boots and the staff against the grass help bring order to your mind.
It would be easier to bury your fingers in the pages of your book, your most treasured possession since Din gave it to you, rather than acknowledge what you are feeling and what you have felt since leaving the snow covered planet behind. Leaving what almost happened, but has followed you against your will.
And we are not people who don’t do something just because we’re afraid. Are we?
You force yourself further out from the village, stumbling only twice and threatening to roll your ankle when your boot slips on a rock. The blurred carpet of the world turns from green to a slow wash of trickling colors, yellows and oranges and deeper crimson blooms begin to appear the further you trek. You slow your pace near the bordering copse of pines, their sharp, cool scent against the honey sweetness of the flowers refreshing. You bring your beskar in front of you, planting the bottom firmly into the cushion of the earth with both hands, and you take a deep breath.
Seeing the movement of your reflection against the steel humbles you.
The truth you have been given, like an unwilling dunk beneath icy water, is that you have been irrevocably changed. You are not the weak, small thing you had been. You’ve not been that for some time now, and it occurs to you, as you tighten your knuckles until they’re white around the staff, that you want this bounty just as much as Din because you want to live your life with the little child you’ve fallen so deeply in love with.
Because you love both of them, your clan, more than yourself, more than anyone. You had not thought when he had made space for you in his life that you had been carving out space for the both of them in yours, too.
That part of you that had only kept the memories that hurt you, the ones of your mother and father, were now overshadowed by real, tangible things you could touch and feel and love again.
You slowly slide down the length of your staff onto your knees, sniffling as you feel the petals of the tiny orange and yellow flowers growing wild in the pasture. You lay the staff to the side in the grass, and you’re aware of someone’s footsteps approaching from behind, purposefully loud enough to not scare you when his fingers brush the crown of your head.
You expect a gentle reprimand for going off by yourself, but instead, Din crouches beside you and seems to understand what you are doing. He removes his vibroblade from the sheath at his boot, the same one he’d killed Toro Calican with, in fact, and he leans forward to cup one hand around your own where it holds a handful of flower stems. With the other, he cuts them cleanly, mindful not to disturb any other flora, and though there is a knot at the base of your throat with all the things you want to say in one big breath, you hold it tight for just a bit longer.
Following you around the pasture, Din gently helps you pick which flowers you find suitable, wordless and warm beside you until you have so many blossoms that you can’t hold any more. Their pollen covered stamens leave sparkling dust on your pants and boots, and you feel yourself smile when he reaches up to his cowl and begins to unfasten his cloak. It brushes through the grass, heavy and thick, as he lays it down, and your smile widens as he helps you lay the blooms down. You plop yourself down, crossing your ankles beside you as your hands begin sifting through the different plants. Some have fat, plush petals while others are thin and bell shaped, drooping elegantly in colors of gold and white and red. Easier colors to see in the fading light of twilight, and you feel Din stretching out beside you.
“We need to talk,” he says, his voice couched in a drowsy kind of peace.
“I know.” You swallow that painful knot with relief, your smile softening as he leans back slightly on one hand. It’s bare, without its glove, fingers curling in the grass, and you wonder if he wishes he could taste the clean air, the plants, the water, all without the creed. Your eyes drop to the small bunch of flowers in your hands, some pinks and oranges with speckled velvety petals, and you push yourself up to your knees, shifting to lay back with your head pillowed on his knee. It keeps you in one place, keeps you from floating away when his hand drops to rest across your stomach. His thumb traces little patterns that are soothing enough to send you to sleep.
And he’s watching you as you feel around on the cape to find his glove, picking it up. You start placing flowers in the leather, using it as a container for the bundle of blooms you have chosen for your little boy, slipping their stems through the different fingers so they won’t get bent.
“Winta told me their harvest is ending, and there will be a festival with paper lanterns and bonfires that burn all night,” you say breathlessly, brimming with the need to tell him everything. You fiddle with the flowers uselessly as an excuse to not meet his visor with your eyes. “A celebration of a year’s work and bounty. It’s a chance to reflect and give thanks,” you take a deeper breath, setting the glove aside and laying your hand on top of his own. His skin is still so warm. “A time to commit to promises before you make them.”
Din says nothing, listening close even as your voice fades in and out of a whisper. You slip your fingers around the back of his hand, clutching it like a child holds a favored toy for safety, and you bring it to your heart.
“I’d like to come back one day, to see it,” you add, drawing his hand up further to the side of your face so you can rest your cheek in the leather softened valley of his palm. “If we are not on some other grand adventure.”
“You haven’t had enough?” Din asks, his other hand reaching up to brush a twirling lock of your hair off your shoulder. He doesn’t seem to mind you’ve caught his other. It reminds you of an old story the Moff’s wife told you, of a rock-lion with a thorn in its paw, needing to calm its anger and hurt to allow another being, smaller and weaker, to remove it.
You know what you will answer, but you let your eyes finally drift up to the visor. “Have you?”
Din’s helmet shifts, leaning down to look at you closer. “Sometimes,” he admits, his voice breaking on the words with quiet honesty. “There are days I wake up and wish my back didn’t hurt from sleeping in an old chair or a too worn bed. That we didn’t live job to job, and I could find a place safer and quieter for us.”
Your lips tremble on the smile that fights to get out, and you cup his hand closer to your cheek. “And other times?” you ask, somehow both hoping and knowing what he will say.
“Most times, I know I would miss it. The hunt, the chase,” he murmurs through the vocoder, and you feel his other hand cup the crown of your head like something precious. “The reward.”
Your sightless eyes drift away from his helmet, flickering up toward the sky painted in shades of twilight. Though you can’t make out the details, the colors are swirled in pinks, oranges, violets, and deeper indigo, to the west. You take a deep breath, letting it out slowly and letting your eyes shut.
“When I was young, I remember being so...so hurt that I couldn’t see little things. Clouds, stars, handwriting, the carving on a piece of furniture. The embroidery on a dress. It was always building in the back of my throat, this scream I couldn’t let out. Something so unfair happened to me,” you whisper, feeling that deepened ache in your chest open, and Din’s thumb brushes the top of your cheek. You open your eyes. “I had to hold onto good things, the things I remembered, and I think...I was so busy doing that, I didn’t do anything good for a long time.”
“You-”
“L-Let me finish, please,” you whisper, holding his hand tighter against your cheek. He hesitates, before nodding once, very slow. You let out another slow breath. “I’ve heard these stories about people being changed by a big event. Something monumental that left them irrevocably different, for better or worse, and I’ve been waiting for that. I thought perhaps, it might have been when you paid my slaver’s debt. Or when I learned how to fly,” you laugh a little, still in wonder that you can do that. “The first time the baby reached or ran to me, or the first time I made you laugh.”
Din seems to grow still as stone, his visor unmoving from your face, and you do your best to meet his eyes through the smoky glass. “But all of those were good. So good that they turned me into a sum of so many parts of myself I didn’t know I had, and I realize that I’ve loved you a very long time. But when you weren’t breathing-” You have to steady yourself, to steady Din with one hand pressed firm against his hand near your cheek, the other grasping a fistful of your dress. “-I realized how losing you meant I wouldn’t just be without you, but I...I’d be without the best parts of myself, too.”
Din says nothing, but you know he sees the tiny tear rolling from the corner of your eye, down your temple and into your hair. You wait in the silence, which has grown into a night bloom, a living thing twining its way around you both so that nothing else can touch you for these precious moments.
But then, he moves, a man of action rather than words. He takes his hand from your face, and you aren’t sure what he’s doing until you hear the release of the seal underneath his helmet, and you see when it reveals the golden planes of his face, the curling, fluffy dark hair that hides beneath. His firm hands, fluent in violence and wrath, lift you up by your shoulders with only tenderness. You can’t make out anything more, but you can hear the catch in his breath and feel his lips trembling when he gathers one of your hands between both of his own, as if cradling a newborn bird.
“I can’t…” Your heart nearly stops completely, watching him bend over your hand to kiss the inside of your palm. You can feel his tears slipping between your fingers, and you are suddenly terrified of what will happen next, a sickly anxiety worming its way in your belly when he draws one hand back.
“I can’t believe you’re real sometimes,” he rasps, a broken sound of joy only found in grief, and he laughs or weeps, you aren’t sure. You part your lips to speak, but the scratch of his facial hair against the inside of your fingers stills you. “Sometimes, I think I dreamt you.”
Something small, firm, and smooth presses into your hand that he holds. You touch it with your fingertips, the ring pale in color and light in weight like a cloud. You believe your heart does stop then, and you look back to him for some kind of reassurance, some kind of evidence that you are still you, still awake.
It’s when you touch his face, how his eyes flutter closed and he smiles as only you have ever felt, that you know the answer.