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ghoulishsleep · 1 year

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THE DOCTOR | Part 4 | The Mandalorian

< PART 3 | Part 5 >

GIF by akariownsyasuke

SUMMARY: The Child makes progress, and the Mandalorian keeps busy.

PAIRING: eventual Din Djarin x OC afab!reader (no physical descriptions; reader has relatives, a surname, and backstory/personality)

WORD COUNT: +2.2k

A/N: That took a minute 👀 What I originally wrote didn't really work imo, so I had to scrap it and rework the idea for this part. I kind of settled on this bit, so I hope it all works. I know it's slow, but we're ~easing into it~. Double-ish my usual WC to make up for the time. I have a poll thingy on Google Forms, if anyone would like to drop some feedback (anonymously!) because I’m curious. Thank you for reading ❤️ and I hope you enjoy! Oh! Also, this officially takes place at some point before Episode 7: The Reckoning.

WARNINGS: Slow burn. (I guess?) Mention of offscreen/prior Din x Omera, or at least ✨something✨ between them.

When your father passed, operating the clinic without him or returning home to a silent abode felt strange. Your old man was always up to something, the air alive with his hum or the bustle of a side project. Of course, you were thankful for your brother-droid’s company – you don’t know how you would have navigated such a loss without him – but 2-1B just didn’t occupy space in the same way as another creature of flesh and blood.

Once lively lulls quickly became cavernous, and though your lone companion never voiced his feelings (did droids feel? you think so), you both needed to adjust, and it took time. Lots.

You filled the air with music or audiobooks for many cycles, even asking 2-1B to just talk. At some point, you reached a point where you could wean away from the drone of background noise, and comfortable silences once again became commonplace in your home. You hadn’t considered your readjustment to organic noise when you offered the Mandalorian and his foundling a place to stay.

You weren’t opposed – just surprised.

For his first four days in your home, you hardly see or hear the Mandalorian, who evidently picked up work from old Kasa on her farm. In exchange for a generous sum, she kept him busy from when you left in the morning until nearly dusk, though you couldn’t tell it from how the man carried himself. Kasa was an appreciated community pillar, so he’d evidently made quite the impression by how her word quickly swirled and shifted their perception of the “metal man” to “Mando.”

Having the Child around had been a small joy, particularly around dinnertime. While the Mandalorian rested, you had entire conversations with the expressive baby, whose eyes and ears conveyed as much as his spirited trills and gurgles. His propensity to you made it easy to take his vitals at both mealtimes, and you were pleased to report that he would quickly be ready to leave your watch.

Your being starstruck waned, and though you shared few words throughout the days, you were comforted by the fact he remembered you, some college kid he’d met ten years ago. The bit of time you shared, between the Child going to sleep and dinner being done, was often bridged by quiet, and the Mandalorian nearly melting into the couch in the den. At the same time, you fiddle around with things and pipe up an odd question about his work for Kasa or what you heard from the old folks’ rumor mill before parting ways for the evening.

On your fifth morning with the pair, you wake to distant sounds in the kitchen and bolt upright, heart pounding and mind racing to where the blaster rifle is tucked away in your closet. You nearly reach the closet door – when you realize why you hear the noise. Who you’re hearing.

You glance at the clock and see the glow of 04:07 and groan. Perhaps the silver lining is that you can get an extra early jump on the day?

The pneumatic door announces your presence before gentle footfall does, dampened by soft slippers. Squinting against a lone light in the kitchen, you find the Mandalorian standing at the open door of the cooling chamber. The Child is sitting on the counter, watching his guardian expectantly, and there’s a slowly steaming pan on the stove.

You can’t help staring – you’re confused, coming off a disorienting mix of adrenaline and sleep.

“Sorry. The kid was hungry, and I didn’t want to wake you.” The Mandalorian shuts the cooling chamber and turns like a child caught sneaking sweets. You almost laugh, but your languor wins, leaving you with a pleasant smile.

“Well, I appreciate the effort. Can I give you a hand, or have you got it?”

The helmet turns from you to the stove and back. Then comes a cautious answer, “I’ve got it.”

“Alright, I’ll leave you to it. But let me know if you change your mind.” You make sure to look into his visor pointedly (or as much so as you can muster), to which the Mandalorian nods.

He maneuvers the space carefully around you as you set a pot of caf to brew, methodically grinding the beans and measuring water as though ritual – and, to you, it is. Most mornings began with it, unless on a day that 2-1B insisted you take off – then, it was mild, herbaceous tea to set the tone.

You feel the Mandalorian’s eyes on you here and there as you tap out stubborn grounds or climb onto the counter to reach something too high-up, and though you’re sure it’s well-meaning, you hate how it makes your hands tremble. All the while, he did well to fix the Child a bowl of meat and broth despite being unfamiliar with your setup, adding a dropper of medicine and stirring, just as you demonstrated that first evening.

With a cup of caf and your datapad in hand, you assume a comfortable, sleepy silence in the den, scrolling scholarly articles published by Coruscant University. The Mandalorian methodically disassembles and cleans the components of his amban rifle as the dawn bleeds blue and the air is filled with the Child slurping on his breakfast. Come the time the sky is goldenrod, it is of soft snores, with the Child passed out between his guardian and the arm of the couch, porringer still clutched in tiny hands.

The Mandalorian rises, presumably to deposit the little being into bed again for a short nap before the long day ahead. Meanwhile, you get up and fix another cup of caf for yourself and another unaltered one for your guest. When he returns, the confusion is evident in how the visor regards the cup for a beat, then pans to where you linger at the edge of the kitchen.

“Have some caf. It’s going to be a long day,” you sigh, fingers lacing around the front of your cup as you move toward the corridor leading to your room. “I’m going to get ready. It’ll probably be about thirty minutes, so you can relax. 2-1B won’t come out ‘til I’m leaving, and I’ll announce myself, too.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind.” The tone of his voice is dichotomous – flattened by the modulator but almost gentle.

“Of course,” you smile.

It’s not often that Din is shown hospitality. He learned very early, once of age to begin venturing out, that most did not take a shine to Mandalorians – they were unreadable and armed to the teeth, and his occupation of choice lent him no favors. Instead, it earned him more disdainful stares as his reputation steadily preceded him, as his notoriety now does. So, he felt fortunate for what unquestioning kindness he received, especially of late. From Kuiil. Omera. Peli. Now you, and even your once-withdrawn neighbors.

Din sighs, and the kid warbles curiously, crumbs from the cookies you’d sent him off with falling from his tiny mouth. Sorgan was only a short time behind them, yet he felt he should feel better about what could be. A life of anonymity – domesticity – peace (possibly with her), dashed by the innumerable blinking fobs in the universe, all pointed at the Child. At him.

“Mando, dear,” Kasa’s voice carries from deep inside her home, resounding off the high curved ceilings. Drawn from his reverie, Din pushes off his knees to stand, meeting the woman at the threshold of her front door. She’s a tiny and kind human with a serene expression framed by wisps of salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a neat braid. He wonders if she has kids – family, somewhere out in the galaxy.

She hands him a woven sachet of credits, whose weight drops firmly into his palm. “Thank you for all you’ve done, truly, and please feel free to come visit if you’re close by,” she beams up at him, patting the orange fingers of his gloved hand tenderly, and Din wishes he could convey the smile that creeps onto his expression.

“I’ll do my best, Kasa. Thank you, ” he ensures, tucking his wage and the Child into his sling bag. Would he survive to? He pushes the thought aside, straightening.

“I look forward to it,” Kasa says earnestly and turns to step back inside. “And please tell the Doctors hello!”

She seems satisfied by his nod and waves to the kid, who babbles around another chunk of a cookie, his own au revoir.

Despite his initial surprise, Din was relieved that Kasa had cut him loose early. She seemed to have an endless list of things needing doing around her property – repairs, things moved, something fetched from so-and-so – just slightly beyond her, so much that he could probably spend weeks helping out. Yet, she took mercy, urging with a matronly touch to relax and enjoy the remainder of his time on Chaira – ”it’s a beautiful place!” Shame he wouldn’t have much more time to take it in.

The main street is a long but straight shot from Kasa’s back to your home, along which Din takes the time to peruse the merchant pop-ups again, espousing many handmade goods or fresh food. Most residents seemed to have a business here, if not the family of arborists up the mountain, providing a diverse array of wares. A skewered crispy creature for the kid and a big paper-wrapped “artisanal” soap block later, he’s on the move again, back toward your residence.

You seem well-loved by the stream of locals he’d noticed stopping in simply to chat. How they watched him intimately, he realizes, is protective of their resident doctor. Din expects to hear your voice spilling into the street when he reaches the clinic, carrying on in some conversation but finds your lone droid sweeping the foyer. The Child coos, prompting 2-1B to turn their way and wave a pincer.

“Out foraging in the hills behind the house. Go past the pond,” he says of you before Din can reluctantly ask.

“Thanks,” he gruffs and sets off that way.

The walk there is refreshing. The back terrace gives way to rugged steps inlaid to the hill, framed by thickets of greenery and dense undergrowth that brush against his greaves and low-hanging branches that tap his helm. It disseminates to undulating hills blanketed in knee-high grasses dotted with vegetation and craggy rock.

He finds you deep in a far gulley, toeing its edge to spy you in its trough. The Child coos, causing you to straighten from behind a bush sporting large umber flowers – one of many around here. A rifle stock peeks over one shoulder, and a woven basket the opposite, brimming with color.

“Mandalorian,” you greet, clearly pleased to see him. Then your expression shifts, eyes dropping to the distinct green ears at his side. “Did you need something? Is the kid alright?”

“He’s fine. I just finished up Kasa’s work.”

“Wow, she let you go?” You raise your brows, circling the bush you’re at to pluck away a few more stems of choice, placed gingerly in the basket. “You know, if you wanted to give up bounty hunting, Kasa could probably use a hand like you. Might be steadier money, though maybe not as much?”

You meticulously pick over the brush for full blooms, leaving behind unopened buds, and fortunately miss how the Mandalorian’s helmet turns, or his fingers clench and release. As appealing as it is, to slip away, such wistful thinking isn’t realistic for someone like him. It would jeopardize more than just him or the Child to stay.

You’ve moved on to another cluster of bushes by the time he follows over, imperceptibly eying the rifle slung over your shoulder. It’s nice if a bit dated – Alliance issue – and looks curious upon your back.

“What do you need that out here for?” he asks, indicating with a nod.

“Dogs,” you say plainly, rising once your basket is full. The helmet inclines dubiously.

“Dogs?”

“Big ones. Like, you-size,” you emphasize and gesture a finger up and down to send it home. The Mandalorian scans the expansive field surrounding the gulley, posture tightening. A hand brushes the blaster at his hip, like a gunslinger out of a holofilm. You chuckle.

“They don’t usually prey on us here,” you indulge and begin to climb the steep incline, hands forward to steady yourself. “But if they get sick, they do. So, I carry it just in case.”

The Mandalorian only grunts, retreating a few paces to allow you room as you boost yourself over the top edge.

“So, are you done for the day, or are you done-done?” you ask, dusting off your gloved hands.

He seems to parse over your choice of words, and as you begin to walk in tandem you suspect you’re getting side-eye.

“Done-done,” he says flatly, and you smirk. Following a beat, he continues, “Since the kid is doing well, I think we’ll take off this evening. Need to keep moving.”

Your brow furrows. You want to pull some kind of “executive decision” as the kid’s physician to keep them longer but fall short. Even if you did come up with something, it was selfish (you already got what you want) and you didn’t want to rub the Mandalorian the wrong way.

“Are you on the run?” you ask after a moment, casting the metal man a sidelong glance.

The Mandalorian doesn’t give you an answer.

< PART 3 | Part 5 >

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#i've been toying around with making some fun dividers n banners #so hopefully for the next installment i can have those done!#ALSO AGAIN i hope this is decent #i went back and forth FOR SO LONG on this #and i am capital-s Settling #just to get on to the next bits #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x reader #star wars x reader #mando x reader #din djarin #mando #the mandalorian fanfiction #gif cw #series: i dream of chrome #fic: the doctor

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