Chapter Text
Din waited quietly and patiently outside of the ship. The child toddled around, chasing joonbugs that glittered in the afternoon sun. Atin was changing her clothes in the cockpit, he knew she didn’t need--or want--him to leave, but he still knew it was better to draw the separation line now. Extra privacy. As little speaking as possible.
The Armorer had requested to be dropped off before they hit the Mid Rim. She didn’t want to be in populated areas, and Din couldn’t say he blamed her. After everything she’d seen recently, she deserved her scruples. She caught a transport back to Nevarro with a smuggler who was known to be tight-lipped about his passengers.
Their journey had passed in silence. The unspoken things between them remained unspoken.
Through it all, Din felt raw even with his armor on.
She’d given him time to clean up while they’d been in hyperspace. He’d miss that. Atin had snuggled and kissed and cooed at the Foundling, bathed him and changed him and played nurse just a little longer. She was certain the kid would forget her, but not the mothering. He had a feeling that wasn’t true, and he also suspected that she was going to miss the child far, far too much.
He heard steps coming down the ladder, and he walked back up the gangway. The Foundling followed, his ears perked. He knew something was up, and Din knew he was going to cry and cry when she was gone. She was dressed in her short jacket, and in a long, white, silky dress that billowed behind her a little. It took his breath away.
“How do I look?” she asked. Then, after a mere seconds’ pause, said, “Nevermind, I don’t want to know. I know it’s bad. I’ll fix it later.”
No. No, don’t say that. Please, don’t say that.
Every neuron in his brain was firing on that dress, what it would look like underneath. Was this what it was like for everyone else when they looked at his helmet? The raw, primal curiosity? He pressed the blue button to raise the gangway. He had to make a choice--either live with this, or make a very serious mistake.
The Armorer had warned him. “She will tempt you to stray from the Way.”
The guilt was tearing at him. She dug around in her satchel, and produced from it a large wrapped package that she tucked into her elbow, and a credits bag. He’d seen millions of them. Hers had a little blue flower embroidered on the corner. Hand-embroidered, it looked like.
“Well, here you go,” she said, handing him the bag. It was heavy in his hand. “20,000 New Republic credits, in ingots--are ingots okay? I… I maybe should have asked…”
“Ingots are fine,” he said, knowing it came out a bit strangled.
“And your beskar,” she said, handing it over. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes, green as the bottles of cheap liquor in the cantina on Nevarro.
“Atin… after everything that’s happened--”
“Take it.” She was firm. “For the foundlings. From what I’ve heard, she’s got to be sitting on one of the biggest stashes of beskar in the known galaxy.”
“That’s… very generous of you. I was once a foundling.”
She seemed surprised. “I… You were?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“And now you’ve taken in a foundling of your own,” she said with a smile. “See, you need this. All I’m doing is collecting dust with it. Bring it to your Armorer. She can rebuild your covert with this. It belongs with true Mandalorians. Crazy as I think you guys are, at least you are living your truth.”
He took the beskar, and along with the credits, he set them on a crate. He was pretty sure the crate contained blasters that hadn’t been touched since Sorgan. Din was hesitant. It looked suspicious. Atin tried to read him, but gave up and looked sympathetic instead.
“What’s the matter, loth-cat?”
“What did you call me?”
She raised her hands. “Um… I’m sorry, I… I didn’t mean… I just… you’re like an old loth-cat sometimes, y’know? I didn’t mean…”
“I… No, I don’t mind, I just… would you mind closing your eyes?”
Atin turned pink under her freckles. She smiled. “Sure.”
She did. She’d put makeup on, and her narrow eyelids were gold. He watched her startle a bit at the sound of his helmet’s mechanics whirring. He set it on the crate beside the money and metal.
“Din, I… I’m not sure… I get that that was a one-time-thing, I’m fine with that--”
He leaned in, pressing close against her. His cuirass pressed into his chest, through all the layers of protective cloth. He covered her eyes before she could open them in shock, and kissed her. Atin’s reaction was instant, first of hesitation. Her arms raised in surprise before she threw them around his neck. Pulling him tightly against her, she raked her fingers through his hair, pulling a groan out of his throat.
He wrapped his arm around her ribs. The softest sounds slipped from her, sounds that he could never have guessed would do these things to him. His gut was in freefall, he felt weightless. Taking his hand from her eyes, he found them still closed.
“Atin,” he breathed. “I want…”
“What?” she asked.
“I want you to look at me.”
She opened her eyes, keeping them trained on the center of his cuirass, the beskar heart of his armor.
“I meant… my face.”
She turned ghostly white. “No, absolutely not. NO. Din, I am not going to compromise--”
“Please.”
She sighed. “Oh… damn it all.”
“You want to see me. I want you to see me. No living being has seen me without my helmet, and… I just… I want you to.”
“You’re sure ?”
“Certain. Besides… you’re dead to a lot of people.”
She sighed, holding his hands. When she lifted her face to his, she gasped a little. He could look directly into her green eyes, keen and sure, unobstructed. He wasn’t sure what the look on her face meant. His heart skipped a beat. All the times someone had asked what he looked like under there in a threatening way, all the times someone had screamed that he must be ugly under there to be such a bastard, and the unbothered neutrality of IG-11 came back to him. He didn’t care what he looked like, he was a Mandalorian, it wasn’t the face that made him. But… well, he cared a little now.
“You have... “
He raised his eyebrows, looked down at their hands. “Yeah, I know,” he began, about to say rough cheeks.
“Din, you have the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen.”
He looked back at her face, and he felt the heat on his cheeks. A self-conscious smile spread itself across his mouth. “Thanks.”
She touched his face, her fingers tender and soft. She ran her thumb along a scar near his nose. “Big, gorgeous, kind eyes.”
Tears sprang to hers. “I… really don’t want to leave.”
“Yeah, you do. You’ve got work, and I’ve got work, and... there’s only one bed on the Crest …”
“I don’t see the problem,” she said flirtatiously, drawing the blood out of his chest and into his face and groin. She drew him down for another kiss, and this time she kept her eyes open.
“Don’t lose your Way, Din Djarin,” she whispered, her mouth still so near to his he could feel the soft breath and smell the salt of tears.
“Don’t stop trying to fix the galaxy,” he returned.
There was a loud clatter, a stack of something fell over, and there was a soft coo of distress from the child. Atin and him both turned and looked, smiling.
“If there’s ever anything I can do for you… tell me. Don’t hesitate. And… take care of him, would you? I like him. And if you can’t find his kind, then he’s going to be a really, really cool Mandalorian.”
She slipped out of his grasp, picked up her two satchels, and pressed the button for the gangway. As it lowered, she looked back at him, and smiled.
“ Ret’urcye mhi, Din Djarin.”
And she walked away.