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well it's love, make it hurt - chapter fifteen

well it's love, make it hurt series

fifteen: would have been nice to say I knew you

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dom!Din Djarin x sub!f!reader

Words: 2.9k

Summary: You and Mando meet again.

Warnings: discussions of genocide, the purge of mandalore, descriptions of grief, survivor's guilt, communication?, talking about feelings??, a tiny bit of groguito

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

9 ABY - Fall

You can’t breathe. Sure, it could be a different ST-70. Maybe all Mandalorians flew them.

But—

You turn your wrist over and stare at your chrono.

You have to try.

You feel like the ghost, now, your limbs cold and prickling. Your feet carry you down the tree to the forest's edge.

It never worked at long distances. But—

If it’s his. If he hasn’t changed the programming.

It pulls right up when you turn the dial.

You press the first button to disable the ground security protocols. It gives no indication of success or failure, but it never had.

Your finger hovers over the button that, if he’s left your chrono coded into the system, will open the ramp.

Your hands shake so badly that you miss the button on the first try and end up jamming your thumb on the screen before getting it right. You’re so busy being mad at your chrono and your stupid nerves that the hiss of the ramp lowering startles you.

The thought of walking up it nearly makes you puke.

It’s funny, you think. You haven’t delved into any of the games you used to play with Mando in five years, but one look at the Crest makes a masochist out of you. That must be it, because otherwise, why would you be stepping into the hull while your chest is screaming?

Time has stood still in the Crest. It’s neat and clean. Your old bed-turned-sofa sits against the wall. You can’t bear to open the bunk or climb up to the cockpit. You can’t move at all, actually, leaden feet stuck in the purgatory of the entrance. Neither in nor out.

But it doesn’t smell right. It doesn’t smell like Mando. Sure, gunpowder and oil permeate the air, but the deep spice of his cooking is completely absent. The scent was so strong before that it clung stubbornly to every soft surface and couldn’t be shaken out.

“You went to all the trouble of that elaborate stunt in the cantina just to come right to the ship?”

The crackle of the modulator startles you enough to whirl around, blaster pointed.

“It worked, you know,” he says quietly, hands up but slowly climbing the ramp.

You back up, blaster unwavering.

“I lost your trail. Smart trick.”

“Then how’d you find me?”

“Got an alert that you disengaged the ground security.” He sighs, and his shoulders slump. “Can we talk?”

“Where’s your baby?” you counter.

“Sleeping in your apartment.”

“What?” You stare, mouth agape, top lip arched in a facsimile of a sneer.

“Well, it’s the safest place in the city, other than this ship. And I wasn’t sure how this was going to go.”

“You left your baby in my apartment. My apartment full of weapons.”

“He’s in the pod, he’ll be fine.”

“You left your baby locked in a pram in an apartment full of weapons.”

“He’s not my baby.”

Mando gives a little shrug with one shoulder.

You stare at him, eyes wide and wild. “That’s... that's worse.”

“I have a monitor.” He presses a button on his vambrace and a speaker crackles. If you listen closely, you can hear soft breathing.

You think something in your brain has snapped. Or exploded. Something critical, maybe. The nausea has been replaced with rage colder than hyperspace. It gives you the nerve to stomp past him down the ramp.

He doesn’t try to stop you. He does, however, follow you.

“Kriff off, Mandalorian.”

“I would, but I have to go with you.”

You whirl around, blaster still in your hand. “Do not follow me.”

“I need to pick up the baby. He’s at your place, remember?”

You scream. You honest-to-stars fucking scream, throwing your blaster in favor of shoving him hard with both hands.

He stumbles back a little. He must have had his guard down; he didn’t really think you’d come at him.

But you do it again, and it’s all the worse to realize he’s just letting you, and nothing is satisfying the burn, the way your teeth ache for a fight. What are you supposed to do? Punch him in his beskar head?

“Fucking coward,” you snarl, gearing up to push him again for lack of a better outlet.

He catches you by both wrists this time. His grip is firm but not painful.

You struggle even though you know it’s over.

He holds still and silent as you spit vitriol and kick at him. He even anticipates when you lunge to sink your teeth into his gloved fingers, yanking your wrists away, and you stumble.

Of course, he pulls you steady, unwavering.

Your chest is heaving; you’re still burning. “Fight back,” you huff. “Fucking fight me back.”

“You don’t want to fight,” he says, infuriatingly calm. “You want to hurt.”

“Don’t you start that shit.”

“I’m not going to, cyar’ika. But I know you.”

“Stop,” you yell. “You don’t get to say that or anything to me. You’re dead.” Your voice breaks humiliatingly on the last sentence.

“I’m sorry.”

You wrench out of his grasp as he repeats it.

You let yourself fall on the ground on your ass., leaning back on your hands in the damp field to stare straight out at the trees.

He sits down next to you, wise enough to keep a safe distance. You hate that it’s easier when you don’t have to look at him. That you can feel him, and you know, you just know it’s really him.

You close your eyes and shake your head. “S’not real. I had a bad ronto, and I’m going to wake up in the fresher.”

“That happen a lot?”

“Nah, just the once.”

“That's good. I gave one to the kid.”

You tip your head back and stare up at the stars. "How are you here?” It’s just a breath louder than the breeze.

“My tribe did not live on Mandalore, but on one of its moons,” he begins but pauses to think. “There was a... complicated political history, one I was too young to understand, that split the Mandalorians. My people built a home on Concordia.”

“You always said—”

“I know. I’m sorry. At the time, it was simpler. Easier than explaining something I didn’t know enough about.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” you mumble. “You didn’t owe me anything. Still don’t.”

He’s quiet for a minute. “Do you truly believe that?”

“Why now?” It comes out softer than you meant it to. Defeated.

He sighs. “At first, I couldn’t. I tried to reach you. But from the sound of it, I made it to Nevarro about three months after you left.”

The nausea comes back with a vengeance. “Oh.”

“I understand, now. Why you left,” he says.

It doesn’t matter. You’re fractured, like the next words out of his mouth will shatter you.

You hadn’t waited.

You had run away.

The horror must show on your face because he does a double take and sits up on his knees, turning to you. “No, sweetheart—”

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

“Maybe not. It was selfish. But I’ve been looking for you in every crowd for the last five years, and when I finally got a lead, I couldn’t help it. Told myself I’d just see if you were alright. But then I got here. And you were. You were safe, almost happy. I had about worked up the nerve to walk away.”

“And then I tackled you and held a knife to your throat?”

“No. Then I saw you wearing my tunic.”

"What, were you watching me sleep through my window?"

He's quiet for a beat too long.

"Wow. You were."

"And you were using it on purpose."

“It’s just a shirt.”

“Is it? If it is, I can go.”

You both fall silent.

You wrap your arms around your knees and stare at the ground. “I grieved for you,” you whisper. “It’s so stupid. I know it's nothing compared to what you've been through.” You wipe your eyes on your sleeve. "And it’s not like we were together. ” You fail to keep the bitterness from your voice.

“It would have been so much easier if we just… never saw each other again. I would have missed you, but I always knew how it would go. But the idea of you—” Your throat tightens, and you stop, struggling to take a deep breath.

You thought you were over this part. Instead, it's like cutting open a freshly-cauturized vibroblade gash. “I wish you hadn’t come. It was cruel of you.”

The night is quiet, save for the gorgs. What feels like hours pass as you sit side by side in silence.

“You never said it back," he says, not without a trace of sorrow.

You look up, the sudden noise catching you off guard. “What?”

“You said we weren’t together, but that was your boundary. Your choice from the beginning. ‘Hunting and fucking, nothing complicated.’ I thought, for a while, that things had changed. That you just needed time. But you never said it back, and then you left.”

“Never said what back?” Something is itching in your brain, something horrible and sickly. Oh, no. No, no, no.

He tilts his head, and you realize you’ve said the last bit aloud.

“No, that was a dream. We were on a beach, which never happened, so it was a dream.”

“That night? After… after we left Axis?”

You bury your face in your hands. This cannot be happening. You don’t know if you’ll survive this.

“You might have been falling asleep, cyar’ika, but I said it.”

You shake your head. “No. It wasn’t real.”

“It was. I said I loved you.”

“Stop. Stop it. You’ve done enough; fine, I hurt you. I didn’t mean to, but you can’t do this to me.” You dig your nails into the flesh of your forearm and focus on breathing, but the world has narrowed to a roaring wind in your ears and black tendrils taking over your vision.

It's been three years since you've blacked out like that, but it must have happened, because he’s holding you up when you can feel again.

“There you go, sweetheart, just breathe,” he’s murmuring. His bare hands are on you; you can feel the heat on the back of your head and middle of your spine. Your face is burning, and throat flayed.

“What doesn’t matter?” he asks.

“What?”

“You said it doesn’t matter.”

You shake your head to clear the storm and pull away from him, thankful that he lets go without a fuss. “Oh. It doesn’t matter, Mando. It doesn’t matter what was or wasn’t said. Not now.”

“Why? Why doesn’t it? It feels like it matters a lot.”

"We've lived completely different lives; we're not the same people we were then."

"We're not so changed that we can't understand one another."

You’re tired. You’re too tired to move or think carefully enough for this conversation. The panic always drains you, and it’s as if your body is finally catching up to the last three hours. Instead of answering, you just bury your face back in your hands and groan.

“Hey,” he says, reaching over to pluck a leaf from your hair. “I don’t want to leave things this way. Will you stay? Just for tonight, so we can talk in the morning.”

“I don't think that’s a good idea.”

“You fainted. I don’t think you should try to walk home. Unless you want me to give you a ride?”

“Don’t think you can land the Crest at my apartment.”

“No, with the phoenix. The jetpack.”

That wakes you up a little. “No. Absolutely not. No, thank you. I’ll sleep here with the gorgs.”

“You’ll get eaten by a puffer pig.”

“Will not.”

“They can be vicious when they want to.”

“They love me,” you say and wish you hadn’t.

“I bet they do,” and it’s sickeningly soft, not a hint of teasing. “Please, cyar’ika? I’ll sleep in the cockpit; you can have the bunk to yourself.”

You sigh. You don’t think you have it in you to scale the fucking spires and Oga’s roof again. You could go around, but that’ll add another hour. By then, the fucking suns will be up.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” you say.

“Okay,” he lies. “C’mon, let’s get you inside.”

You let him help you up but pull away when he tries to support you. You don’t need the help; you could stumble around the Crest and find the bunk even if you were fully asleep. All these years haven’t changed that.

When you lay down, that’s the end of it for you. All your energy slips out, and you barely notice when he tucks the blanket in.

You meet the kid first thing in the morning. Like, first thing. Two hours later, with the three Batuuan stars beaming down from the cabin to the hull.

You meet him immediately because he climbs onto the bunk, and you startle awake, reaching to draw your blaster. Lucky for the kid, you left it in the fucking field overnight.

You sit up, and he climbs into your lap and looks up at you with huge brown eyes that should frankly be weaponized. He tilts his head and coos.

“Are you the baby?” What a stupid question, you think through the haze of too little sleep and too much everything else.

He grabs your hand with three little fingers. It’s painfully cute. And painfully painful. He has some sharp little nails.

You look around the bunk. It’s the same as it ever was, except for a fabric draped across the ceiling. The sharpness starts to grow again behind your sternum, but it’s cut off when the kid makes another sound. He reaches up, and you inexplicably lean down. His little hand touches your cheek.

“Yeah, okay, you’re very cute. Did you need something?”

He looks up at you, unblinking, and you find yourself in the galaxy’s strangest staring contest for a minute. Then he yawns and reaches his arms up, and it clicks.

“Oh! That’s your bed, isn’t it?” You lift him and help him climb in. He nestles into the hammock and falls right to sleep.

You think about doing the same. Just going back to bed, or at least pretending to, so you don’t have to face Mando.

Who, of course, pops up in the doorway. He was always so fucking quiet; it only got worse after he stopped wearing his armor around the ship.

Now, though, he's fully clad. He has a hand on his helmet, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I tried to keep him away.”

“It’s fine,” you shrug. “I kind of stole his bedroom.”

“No, it’s okay; he sleeps in the pod all the time.”

Another awkward silence falls. Your head is pounding.

“C’mon, I got breakfast.”

“You got breakfast, or you made breakfast? Because I haven’t had to eat rations in five years.” You accept his peace offering and slide out of the bunk.

He closes it behind you.

“You trap him in there, too?”

“No, he can get out. This is just in case you yell at me again.”

So much for the fucking peace. You scowl and rub your left arm.

He sighs. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to do this, either.” He waits a moment. “It’s a platter and caf from the docking bay.”

He’s got you there, and he knows it. He brings you the caf as soon as you sit down.

You brace yourself when the modulator picks up an inhale, but when he speaks, it’s not what you were afraid of.

“He’s a foundling. I’ve been quested to return him to his kind.”

“Oh.”

“He was a bounty, first. It’s a long story, but one I would very much like to tell you someday.”

And there it is. You close your eyes, lips pursing.

“I know you said it doesn’t matter. And if it’s what you really want, I’ll leave you alone,” he says.

You chew on your lip but don’t speak, which he takes as an invitation.

“Or, you could come with me.” He raises a hand when you open your mouth. “Just for a few days. I have to leave today to follow a lead before it’s too late. I can come back. Or you could come with us.”

“I have a whole life here,” you warn.

“Is that a yes?”

You groan. It shouldn’t be. You should go to your apartment, pack up your things, and take the next ride out of here so he can’t find you again. That would be the smart choice, to protect yourself.

But what you say is, “Fine.”

“Okay.” He tries to weigh his options, how best to proceed without spooking you. He wants to tear his gloves off and grab your hands, to pull you into his lap.

He doesn’t. He knows you’re not wrong. The things you both have lived through while apart are not insignificant. The pain has forced you to grow in different directions.

But it aches to have you sitting there, to have you home, and to not really have you at all.

So he does the only thing he can think of in that moment. Something desperate but not reckless. He’s thought about little else since the encounter with Gideon.

“Cyar’ika,” he begins cautiously, fingers tapping against the table. “I need to tell you something.”

You look up, lips pursed but eyes soft. Open, willing to chance what he’s about to say, but not without a hint of fear.

“My name is Din.”

*title from "Carpathia" by Taking Back Sunday

#din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #the mandalorian fic #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x you #mando x you #the mandalorian x you #din djarin x oc #mando x oc #din djarin fic #make it hurt verse

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